LETTERS TO 
 MY NEPHEW 
 
 Anthor^r Farley 
 
 IE
 
 
 
 
 
 Ex Libris 
 
 
 
 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 LETTERS TO MY 
 NEPHEW
 
 LETTERS TO MY 
 NEPHEW 
 
 BY 
 
 ANTHONY FARLEY 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 S. G. HOBSON 
 
 LONDON 
 
 GEORGE G. HARRAP ^ COMPANY 
 
 2 (^ 3 PORTSMOUTH STREET KINGS WAY W.C. 
 
 1917
 
 THE RIVERSIDE PRESS LIMITED, EDINBURGH 
 GREAT BRITAIN
 
 
 RUSSELL ANTON BERTRAM HOBSON 
 
 R.A.M.C. 
 SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE 
 
 JL'v'>^.^ ;i
 
 FOREWORD 
 
 A 
 
 S Anthony Farley lounged on the verandah 
 of the Tivoli Hotel at Panama, a young 
 English bride of his acquaintance sat down 
 beside him, dropping on her lap a number of sealed 
 envelopes and twice as many picture post-cards. 
 He noticed that the handwriting was large and 
 sprawling, the joint product of a J pen and a 
 tennis wrist. He thought of his mother's finely 
 pointed.Itahan style, pondering in his gently cynical 
 way whether the difference spelt any change in the 
 eternal feminine. 
 
 " Thank goodness, I've got 'em all ticked off," 
 said she, 
 
 " You seem to have remembered the whole bridal 
 party," said Anthony. 
 
 " Rather ! Wouldn't do to forget any of 'em ; 
 got to live among 'em when we get back, you know." 
 The insouciance of this gay and irresponsible 
 flutter-bird roused in Anthony a vague, undefined 
 disquietude. He suddenly remembered that his hair 
 was turning grey ; that his movements were now 
 more leisurely than formerly ; that creature com- 
 forts were rather agreeable and more considered. 
 
 " I hope you never write a letter you wouldn't 
 Uke your grandchildren to read," he said, with a 
 touch of severity. 
 
 " You are an old-fashioned dear," she gurgled, 
 through a gale of laughter. " I should like to read 
 some of your letters ! " 
 
 "It sounds like a challenge," said Anthony, 
 smiling.
 
 8 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 Out of this trivial colloquy grew these letters. 
 
 They were written in spare moments an5Avhere 
 between Cartagena and Belize ; on banana farms, 
 in mahogany camps, on sloops and schooners as they 
 lay becalmed ; but mamly in British Honduras. The 
 writer has told stories about the people living in this 
 little outpost of Empire, stories that bear some sem- 
 blance of truth. But that surely is the business of 
 fiction. 
 
 Through an indiscretion of mine, the editor of 
 The New Age heard of Anthony Farley's letters and 
 promptly seized them for his readers' amusement. 
 They seemed a little frivolous contrasted with the 
 dynamic appeals and mordant criticisms one reads 
 in that paper. Curiously enough The New Age 
 readers hked them and asked that they be put into 
 some permanent form. 
 
 If his touch was hght, Anthony Farley neverthe- 
 less regarded life seriously, frequently lamenting the 
 lack of solid thinking and grim-set purpose which 
 he thought an unfortunate mark of the modern young 
 man. Since then, alas ! much water has passed 
 under the mill — water fatefully crimsoned with the 
 blood of countless youths. That will change the 
 young man, who, returning from the Front, must 
 meet difficulties to temper his moral courage and 
 problems to search out openings in the armour of his 
 fortitude. I suspect that Anthony Farley regarded 
 this young man, whoever he be, as his nephew. 
 
 S. G. H. 
 London 
 
 March 191 7
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I. On Going Down ii 
 
 II. The Choice of a Profession 22 
 
 III. The Inner Light 33 
 
 IV. Playing the Game 42 
 V. Medicine 50 
 
 VI. The Service of the State 59 
 
 VII. The Expert 69 
 
 VIII. The Colonial Service 77 
 
 IX. Commerce 86 
 
 X. Industry 95 
 
 XI. On Commerce 105 
 
 XII. Tropical ii6 
 
 XIII. On Manufacture 126 
 
 XIV. Canons of Conduct 136 
 XV. Faith 146 
 
 XVI. Religion j^e 
 
 XVII. Love and Home-building 165 
 
 XVIII. The Child j^g 
 
 XIX. Marriage jgg 
 
 XX. Concerning Politics 202 
 
 XXI. The Power behind the Throne 215 
 
 XXII. The Importance of Politics 225 
 
 XXIII. A Change of Heart 
 
 XXIV. A Parliamentary Speech 
 9 
 
 235 
 245
 
 10 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 PAGE 
 
 XXV. A Socialist Orator 256 
 
 XXVI. A Labour M.P. 267 
 
 XXVII. A Degraded Economy 276 
 
 XXVIII. Breeding, Blood, and Piracy 287 
 
 XXIX. Richard Tudor 299 
 
 XXX. The Return of the Native 311
 
 LETTERS TO 
 MY NEPHEW 
 
 I : ON GOING DOWN 
 
 My dear George, 
 
 I have received your letter in which you tell 
 me that, after you have taken your degree, you 
 would prefer some useful occupation ; that the Bar 
 has no attraction for you ; that an academic career 
 would bore you stiff. Very good ; please yourself, 
 my dear boy, and, if you do it thoroughly, you will 
 please me. (By the way, times have surely changed : 
 you don't even mention the Church as a possible 
 field for the exercise of your genius. They tell me 
 that this war will revivify religion.) 
 
 Just now, however, I am more concerned with 
 your question as to how you stand financially. You 
 tell me that you don't want to live in a fool's para- 
 dise and you don't want to sponge on me. A very 
 direct young man ! And quite right too. I am 
 glad that in starting out in hfe you are prepared to 
 face manfully your financial position, whether it be 
 comfortable or the reverse. So, at long last, I must 
 tell you something about yourself that has had to 
 wait the appropriate moment. It also involves a 
 confession on my part that I have been guilty of a 
 breach of trust, for which, I dare say, you could put 
 me in gaol. 
 
 You came to me, with old Nurse (she's very feeble 
 — I tell her heroic cock-and-bull stories about you), 
 on the day we buried your father. You were four 
 
 II
 
 12 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 years old. You seemed to me like any other kid. 
 I wasn't very keen about having you ; in fact, 
 your invasion of my bachelor arrangements was a 
 nuisance. But we were, and are, all that remained 
 from two pairs of grandparents. I hadn't the moral 
 courage to pack you off to some respectable establish- 
 ment where orphans are tended with more or less 
 kindness and attention. Nurse, too, had bullied me 
 from the days of my petticoats. Come to think of 
 it, I don't remember her consulting me about it. 
 She suddenly loomed large as the arbiter of our 
 family morality, and so toted you along, choosing 
 the best room in the house for her precious charge. 
 Your father, of course, dreamily assumed that I 
 should be something more than a guardian. 
 
 Mention of his name brings me back to my crime. 
 Near the end, he handed me the key of his safe. 
 " There's £1000 there for Geordie ; put him through 
 a good university." When I searched the safe I 
 found the money. It was all in bearer bonds — 
 mostly French. For diddling Somerset House 
 there's nothing like bearer bonds. So I pouched the 
 plunder, sold the other effects, kept your father's 
 books (they are now yours — mostly rubbish of the 
 Leslie Stephen-Humphry Ward-Professor Drummond 
 order), and found myself possessed of funds amount- 
 ing to precisely £1274 12s. 4d. I calculated that 
 you would go to Cambridge at the age of nineteen. 
 So I had to keep you for fifteen years and turn you 
 out at the age of, say, twenty-three or twenty-four, 
 a full-fledged M.A. Nothing less than that would 
 have gratified your father. Money invested at 
 5 per cent, compound interest doubles itself in
 
 ON GOING DOWN 13 
 
 fourteen years. Note the phrase " doubles itself." 
 By its own unaided exertions it doubles itself. Isn't 
 money clever ? The shillings spread themselves 
 out to the circumference of florins ; ' thin 'uns ' 
 grow into ' thick 'uns ' ; £5 notes mysteriously 
 ' split.' Marvellous middle-class alchemy ! No 
 vulgar workman with stubbed lingers plying at the 
 bench, no shortened square-toed miner, picking his 
 tonnage in the gloom and grime, no hectic clerk 
 with hideous tie, no homeless, wretched A.B. in 
 the fo'c'sle has aught to do with this strange process. 
 No, sir, it " doubles itself." This is the self-reliance 
 that has made us a great nation. Money doubles 
 itself ; we double our fortunes ; we then cut some 
 figure in the world, grabbing as much of it as we can. 
 A propos, did you ever hear of the story of Com- 
 modore Vanderbilt ? As he was on the gang-plank 
 of his yacht, somebody asked him where he was 
 going. " Round the world," said he, " and if I 
 like it I'll buy it." Was I then to put out this 
 money at interest or spend it upon your clothes, 
 your food, your schooling, and all those other things 
 that boys expect ? A decision was not urgent ; it 
 could wait a year or more. 
 
 Meantime, I began to take an interest in you. 
 You were the son of my brother and were entrusted 
 to my keeping ; I had this money to spend upon 
 you. Of course, if I were Mr H. G. Wells I 
 could spin a pseudo-psychological yarn about my 
 approach to you. It wouldn't be true ; but it would 
 be amusing. Thus : 
 
 " In all my private affairs, and even in the pursuit 
 of my pubHc activities, aimed, as you know, at the
 
 14 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 reconstruction of England on a more orderly basis, 
 compacted of clear thinking and goodwill, I seldom 
 missed tea at the club, with a rubber of whist or a 
 hundred at billiards. I was one of a group of 
 cronies who rather relied upon each other for this 
 enjoyable relaxation. They were all prosperous 
 men of the world whose good-breeding and savoir- 
 faire stirred within me complacent memories of 
 earlier days when my origin would have been 
 instantly discovered by my boots. It took me many 
 years before I acquired the style and material of 
 dress in vogue among the wealthier classes. Even 
 longer before I passed through what might be called 
 dandiacal adolescence to that stage of neglige which 
 is the true mark of those upper circles to which I 
 now belonged and upon whose conversion I was set. 
 It chanced that, in my many preoccupations, I had 
 forgotten one of our public holidays. I walked into 
 the club, and upon collecting my letters (how dreary 
 is casual correspondence !) Thompson, the hall porter, 
 told me that the club was deserted. Stuffing my 
 letters into my despatch-case, I became conscious 
 of a blank. My thoughts travelled far beyond the 
 next two vacant hours to a quickly deepening sense 
 of a grim hiatus in my more intimate life. . . . 
 
 " A hansom cab brought me to my own door. 
 Calling for tea, I walked into your nursery and found 
 you with your toys. You were building a house 
 with square and oblong bricks. With childish 
 prattle you invited my help. I watched you with 
 a kindling curiosity. My far-flung schemes of social 
 regeneration had assumed a certain degree of uni- 
 versal intelligence — a sort of spiritual and mental
 
 ON GOING DOWN 15 
 
 common-denominator. Suddenly I saw that your 
 childish ways and whimsies must be the foundation 
 of a really permanent and beneficent change. The 
 nurse came for you to bathe you, give you your 
 evening meal and put you to bed. I crossed the 
 passage to my study, my brain scintillating with 
 thoughts of a new educational system. I had seen 
 a miracle. Mankind in the making. . . . 
 
 " Luckily or unluckily, I had no engagement that 
 evening. A simple dinner (when alone it is prudent 
 to impress economy upon the servants — a lesson the 
 middle classes have yet to learn from us), and I sat 
 down to work. My study is my castle. In it are 
 my treasures. Over the door is a bust of Lord 
 Northcliffe, whose ebullient vitality and prescient 
 appreciation of national passions and tendencies 
 have yet to be understood by his critics. A signed 
 photograph of G. B. S. is mounted in a panel of the 
 chimney mantel, while opposite is a composite 
 photo of Sidney and Beatrice Webb. A Guild 
 Socialist to whom I showed it murmured, ' Man- 
 kind in the unmaking.' I have travelled far since 
 those photos were mounted, but I cherish only 
 friendhness for these interesting, if futile, Fabians. 
 Widely apart though we now are, I hke to think 
 that I have always treated them with a courtesy 
 and urbaneness very pleasing to my self-conceit. 
 But work was impossible. A restlessness, an in- 
 coming tide of nervous unquiet, set me tramping up 
 and down my study — a large room, once the studio 
 of a famous painter. Then my thoughts went back 
 to you. I wished that you were my own son. 
 The wish grew into a swift, tempestuous current
 
 i6 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 of emotion, tingling with alternating pains and 
 perturbations, poignant, delicious, disturbing. I 
 realized that Nature can call through the step- 
 children of this disorderly world — a call to effort, 
 to duty, to the deeper things that transcend purely 
 objective life. . . . 
 
 " My pacing stopped mechanically at my desk. 
 I took up my diary. To-morrow was important. I 
 must go into the City early. There was a directors' 
 meeting at ii o'clock, when we must finally decide 
 about Adams. A nasty affair that. I could only 
 hope that we would steer clear of the law-courts. 
 At I o'clock, lunch with Templeton, to discuss the 
 Westralian Conduit scheme — a biggish thing, re- 
 quiring diplomatic handling. That would take me 
 to 2.30. Then I must hurry back to my office to 
 complete my correspondence. At 4.30 there was a 
 paper at the Royal Statistical Society, ' The Pro- 
 portion of Tubercles to the Varying Densities of the 
 Square Yard of Factory Space,' diagrams of immense 
 value and probably a discussion of some significance. 
 I must dine at 6.30 to preside at the Fabian at 8. 
 A lecture on ' Preparing for Maternity,' by Mrs 
 Christabel Cross. Altogether a fruitful day was 
 promised. I felt tired, switched off the lights and 
 walked down the passage. Your nursery door was 
 shut and again came the vision. I thought of you 
 as my son, lying in your mother's arms, in a room 
 filled with all those feminine fripperies and utensils 
 which constitute the perennial charm of young 
 motherhood. I thought of my own room, austerely 
 untidy. Almost deluded by the vividness of my 
 imagining, I stole up furtively to your door. ..."
 
 ON GOING DOWN 17 
 
 Wellsian fiction, my dear George, remains fiction, 
 and not palatable at that. My feeling was too 
 simple and elemental for fiction. I had no special 
 affection for you, but it was interesting to me to 
 speculate what the thousand pounds would do for 
 you. Obviously nothing, unless we could keep you 
 healthy and see to your physical growth. Nurse 
 and I, between us, did this. Affection comes with 
 knowledge ; the bonds grow gradually. I think, 
 too, that it is the child, helpless, confiding, and often 
 charming, who starts it. A time came when you 
 brought your childish troubles to me ; a time came 
 when your questions could not be stayed or evaded ; 
 a time came when school called you ; a time came 
 when I watched the doctor stand over you, testing 
 by your tremulous pulse whether you would come 
 back to us from an eerie dreamland, which we could 
 not even vaguely surmise by your little parched lips 
 parted as though in wonder at strange sights. A 
 time came when you went away to a boarding-school 
 and I missed you. A time came when I felt it wise 
 to warn you against a certain secret vice. Yesterday 
 I turned up your letter in reply to mine : 
 
 " Dear Uncle, 
 
 " I would not do such an ungentlemanly 
 thing. Last term a boy was expelled for it. 
 
 " Last Saturday we played Wolverton and won 
 5 to 2. I played half-back and kicked a goal. In 
 the train going back. Old Cluvers said that if I used 
 my shoulders less and my feet more I might become a 
 decent player. He is a beast for ragging a fellow, 
 but a ripping full-back. 
 
 B
 
 i8 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 " Templeton has a camera. His pater gave £2 for 
 it. He wants to buy a collection of something and 
 would sell it to me for £1. I have only 7s. 6d. left. 
 
 " When vac. comes and you meet me at Euston 
 will you take me home in one of those new autocar 
 things ? It would be spiffing. 
 
 " Please let me know about the camera as I pro- 
 mised to let Templeton know. 
 
 " Your affectionate nephew, 
 
 " Geordie." 
 
 In all our vicissitudes, you observe that a time 
 comes ; sooner or later the time, the supreme moment, 
 also surely comes to pass. 
 
 And the time has come to tell you of my mal- 
 feasance. Have all the divagations of this letter 
 led you to forget it ? But I want you to understand 
 my whole attitude, and I think that probably this 
 long way round is the shortest cut home. When I 
 began to divagate (forgive me if my speUing is wrong, 
 but the word tickles my fancy) I was left pondering 
 whether I would put out the whole or the main part 
 of your legacy at compound interest and keep a 
 ledger account between us. Apart from the fact 
 that I hate book-keeping— the job is fit only for 
 Eurasians and spinsters — other considerations came 
 to mind. Where would you be if, after you had 
 taken your degree, your legacy were spent ? I had 
 seen too many instances of young men just down, 
 whose last stiver had gone. I saw them drift about, 
 taking up odd jobs in journalism, acting as private 
 secretaries to aspiring and perspiring pohticians, 
 tutoring young fools on the Continent, going into
 
 ON GOING DOWN 19 
 
 the Church, without rehgious convictions (" un- 
 touched by grace," as your grandfather would have 
 put it) , teaching at third-rate schools, and generally 
 licking the boots of circumstance. Your innocent 
 father had unintentionally placed you in jeopardy 
 and put upon me a heavy responsibility. For it 
 was clear to me that you must be provided not 
 only for j^our university career but for another 
 five years after. How many thousand guileless 
 parents are there who think that, in sending their 
 sons to Oxford or Cambridge, they give them a 
 training for their future work ? The truth is 
 that a true university life trains its students in 
 intellectual receptivity, but never by any chance 
 for the actualities of life. No doubt things have 
 changed since then. Your engineering school, for 
 example, is rated quite highly by some technical 
 friends of mine. 
 
 To cut the story short, I convinced myself that, 
 if we were to interpret your father's wishes generously 
 and not meanly, a thousand pounds was inadequate. 
 So I determined to do a flutter on the Stock Exchange 
 with your money and damn the consequences. If 
 the worst came to the worst, I would find the money 
 myself. I have friends in the City who are on the 
 inside track of things, and I also know (they have 
 since gone bankrupt or gone to prison) a number of 
 company promoters. Between these two sets of 
 thieves I felt it possible to do something profitable. 
 And I brought it off, my boy. Not, however, 
 without anxious moments. At one stage of the 
 game there stood £57 to the credit of your account 
 and a monstrous mush of scrip. At the right
 
 20 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 moment the financial press (well sugared) began to 
 boom the various stocks, and I promptly sold out 
 at a Jew's profit. Several times did I repeat the 
 operation, choosing my own time, for there was no 
 hurry, no urgency, to realize. I have made up the 
 final reckoning. I started gambling on your ac- 
 count, eighteen years ago, with something over £1000. 
 I am handing to j^ou, in good securities, £15,372. 
 I have instructed Ellison to transfer all this stock to 
 you. 
 
 If the Germans do not send the whole demnition 
 pow-wow to perdition, you go down from Cambridge 
 with an assured income of something over £700 a 
 year. Your father and I started with nothing. I 
 wonder w-hether, from that very fact, we were, at 
 your age, better men than you. But I do not regret 
 putting 3'ou into a financially secure position before 
 you have won your spurs. In my young days, the 
 lack of h'apence was a torment and a degradation. 
 It hardened me and gave me self-reliance. But I 
 lost much that was precious. The struggle killed 
 your father. He was a gentle man. We had very 
 little in common. But as he lay dying, a great 
 hatred of the senseless struggle that had sapped his 
 strength surged up in me. 
 
 I derive comfort from the thought that changes 
 are pending ; that the grinding of the faces of the 
 poor show^s signs of working on creaking pivots 
 and rustv hinges. God's mill is also grinding. 
 Wait ! 
 
 Your assured income won't carry you very far, 
 my dear boy. There is much I want to tell you. 
 To-night I am tired and a little sad. I have ceased
 
 ON GOING DOWN 21 
 
 to be you guardian. From now on you are free 
 and independent. I can only hold you by my affec- 
 tion and by whatever spiritual and worldly wisdom 
 the gods have given to me. 
 
 Your affectionate uncle, 
 
 Anthony Farley.
 
 II : THE CHOICE OF A PROFESSION 
 
 Dear George, 
 
 When you wrote that you wanted to follow 
 some useful occupation and expressly excluded the 
 law and the academy, you inferentially condemned 
 both these professions as useless. You probably 
 meant that they were more ornamental than useful. 
 I, of course, understand that you did not include 
 the general teaching profession in such a sweeping 
 censure. You meant becoming a don. Teaching is 
 almost the oldest and certainly the most noble of all 
 the professions. It is the foundation of law, medicine, 
 and priestcraft. The English attitude toward educa- 
 tion puzzles and irritates me. Throughout Europe, 
 the teacher is not only immensely respected but ranks 
 high. In Scotland and Wales, teaching is properly 
 regarded as an honourable and eminently useful 
 profession. In Ireland, too, I have heard old men 
 speak with awe and gratitude of the " hedge teacher," 
 who, braving the law of the Ascendancy, taught 
 young Irishmen the rudiments of knowledge, led 
 them on to Latin (the language of their Church) , and 
 so opened the doors to a curious medley of classical 
 tradition and superstition. In England, we put 
 our teachers upon the same financial level as our 
 policemen. We segregate them in very inferior 
 colleges, isolated from university life, and generally 
 treat them as a negligible factor in our social 
 economy. The teachers, hampered by an increasing 
 female preponderance, are partly to blame for show- 
 ing such a shocking lack of backbone ; but the true 
 cause lies deeper and will be found in our national 
 
 22
 
 THE CHOICE OF A PROFESSION 23 
 
 conception of education as an instrument of discipline 
 rather than an awakening and emancipating force. 
 I am told that the formation of the Teachers' 
 Register may lead to more unity of purpose among 
 the teachers and an excess of power, both economic 
 and pohtical. For the hfe of me, I cannot under- 
 stand why the teaching profession does not constitute 
 itself into a trust or a guild, and run the whole 
 educational machine. Andrew Carnegie could teach 
 them how to do it in ten minutes. He could ; but 
 he wouldn't. He knows better. Anyhow, we have 
 put pedagogy to sleep or to death, and, pending its 
 sure and glorious resurrection, we may dismiss 
 teaching as an occupation quite unfitted for a 
 gentleman. 
 
 I have read somewhere that, legally, a gentleman 
 must belong to one of the liberal professions, or 
 possess £300 a year without working for it. By 
 this token, my boy, your £700 makes you a gentleman. 
 
 You could become doubly a gentleman if you 
 went to the Bar, I do not suppose that you would 
 expect me to give you a double tail to your name, 
 Esq., Esq., but, as you decline to be a barrister, my 
 little conceit is superfluous. But don't run away 
 with the idea that the legal profession is useless. 
 Where would your £700 a year be if we had neither 
 law nor lawyers ? When Parnell's divorce case 
 stirred the virtuous public, a cynic remarked that 
 now was the time for all adulterers to stand shoulder 
 to shoulder. And if I do not mistake the signs of 
 the times, when the more intelligent labourers are 
 openly adopting the heresy that labour is not a 
 commodity to be bought and sold Hke pots and
 
 24 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 potatoes, that it is a human and therefore a sacred 
 thing, it will soon be high time for the possessing 
 classes to stand shoulder to shoulder in defence of 
 their possessions, their hearths, and their homes, 
 not forgetting those unhappy widows and orphans 
 whose little lost legacies will subject them to all the 
 horrors and miseries of Belgian refugees. When 
 that day comes, the lawyers will be the first line 
 of defence, I can tell you the whole rigmarole. 
 First, a series of prosecutions for conspiracy. The 
 first victim ought to be the editor of The New 
 Age, the paper which first denounced the com- 
 modity theory. But conspiracy prosecutions are 
 necessarily limited in their scope. You can't put 
 away the whole labouring population under the law 
 of conspiracy. The next step will be a carefully 
 conceived and almost universal lock-out. If that 
 fails (as it will) then riots will be engineered — in 
 your innocence, do you suppose that our govern- 
 ing classes are incapable of employing agents- 
 provocateurs ? — and so we will call out the military. 
 Thus far I have written with glib certainty. 
 First, the lawyers ; next the police ; finally, the 
 military. But will the military respond ? I wonder ! 
 Will they fire on old comrades ? Will they not 
 rather fire upon their own officers ? They are learn- 
 ing more than we imagine on the plains of Flanders, 
 in the Inferno of Ypres. I saw a private letter the 
 other da}^ It came from a German trader in 
 Hamburg to his brother, a naturalized British 
 subject. " All our officers have not been shot by 
 the enemj^" it said. Perhaps, in this way, the 
 Germans may finally win the war for us.
 
 THE CHOICE OF A PROFESSION 25 
 
 I come back to the profession of law. Believe 
 me, it is not ignoble. It gets into ruts. Place and 
 power and emoluments often, but not always, blind 
 it to the finer issues. It is not pecuUar in this 
 respect. Taking it by and large, its history is 
 greater, more humane, more ennobling than is the 
 history of the Church. In my own experience, I 
 have always found lawyers more susceptible to 
 ideas than clergymen. They are more human. The 
 true confessional to-day is the lawyer's ofhce. No 
 doubt it fishes in dirty waters, A dear friend of 
 mine, on going down from Cambridge, went to the 
 Bar. In all his life, he had been fastidious, fending 
 off all nauseous things. His first brief compelled 
 him to put questions to a miserable girl that 
 would make a priest blush in the confession box. 
 He quickly procured an official berth. It is a truism, 
 but not a platitude, that law is a double-edged 
 weapon. It has been, and may be, the palladium 
 of our liberties ; it has been, and may be, an instru- 
 ment of oppression, of despotism, and of torture. 
 Let us see to it that it does not become the monopoly 
 of bullies and mercenaries. The advocate, even 
 to-day, is not permitted to take a ' fee ' ; nor may 
 he sue for his ' honorarium.' You might do worse, 
 my boy, than go to the Bar. 
 
 I do not forget, too, that our Empire, if not founded 
 on law, is maintained by law. As a Colonial, of 
 sorts, I certainly ought to remember it. Wherever 
 our flag flies, we impose our law. In the httle 
 track of tropical territory from which I derive my 
 poor sustenance, six thousand miles from your 
 snug study, we insist upon rigid obedience to
 
 26 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 law. It reminds me of the little epic of Eleuterio 
 Hernandez. 
 
 About a mile from my plantation is the little 
 wooden house that is at once our police station, post 
 office, telegraph and telephone station. There, as 
 magistrate, I sometimes dispense justice. If the 
 local prison is full, I am very merciful. If we want 
 prison labour, then, oddly enough, I am impressed 
 with the necessity of vindicating the majesty of the 
 law. There still hangs on the wall a soiled and 
 frayed print, announcing in English and Spanish, 
 and signed by the Chief of the Police, that five 
 hundred dollars will be paid to anybody, not a 
 policeman, for the body, alive or dead, of Eleuterio 
 Hernandez. Then follows a description of the Uttle 
 ruffian. We are told that he is a chicle contractor ; 
 that he is very short, being but five feet four inches ; 
 that his sombrero is generally worn well down over 
 his forehead ; that he habitually frowns ; and so on, 
 over about six inches of printed matter. Much 
 more fascinating is an attached photograph. An 
 amateur affair quite clearly, but deadly for purposes 
 of identification. He stands beside a chair, the back 
 of which is almost up to his elbow. To lend beauty 
 to the scene, an antimacassar is stretched over the 
 chair. Hernandez, in a white duck suit, a heavy 
 watch-chain crossing from one breast-pocket to the 
 other, stares gloomily on the ground, as though lost 
 in the immensity of his thoughts. Five hundred 
 dollars, by the gold standard, for him, alive or dead. 
 
 You ask what is a chicle contractor ? Chicle is 
 the basis of American chewing-gum. (A rascally 
 chemist has recently discovered a synthetic sub-
 
 THE CHOICE OF A PROFESSION 27 
 
 stitute.) It is obtained by bleeding the sapodilla 
 tree. It oozes out, a thick, sticky, repulsive-looking 
 stuff. The Belize merchants engage men to go into 
 the bush to collect chicle. They advance money 
 to these men, who are known as ' contractors.' 
 They, in their turn, engage a gang of assistants on 
 monthly wages and rations. No light task, I assure 
 you. The bush is almost impenetrable. You cut 
 your way, yard by yard, with machetes. Snakes 
 lurk at the roots. Tread on one and say your 
 prayers. " What happens, happens," say these 
 chiqueros ; they shrug their shoulders and press 
 forward. Mosquitoes impregnate them with fever. 
 " What happens, happens." The dry season wanes 
 all too quickly ; there is yet much to be done. 
 Press on ! All too soon come the torrential rains. 
 " What happens, happens." Let us get back to see 
 how much we have earned. There are girls and rum 
 waiting for us. 
 
 In this way Hernandez lived. Flour and bacon 
 and beans ; beans and bacon and flour. Sometimes 
 they catch a deer or a peccary ; sometimes they shoot 
 a pigeon. Thus did he arrive on his last journey, 
 thinking perhaps of that back-yard where he was 
 photographed standing beside the chair with the 
 antimacassar. More likely was he thinking of the 
 girl inside, who was waiting for him, pondering subtle 
 questions to probe her fideilty. To-morrow he 
 would interview the merchants. He had reckoned 
 it all up. There was a good fifteen hundred dollars 
 due to him. When he had paid off his crew, 
 he would be at least eight hundred to the good. 
 The races were coming on. He knew every pony
 
 28 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 in the colony. With luck he would double his 
 earnings. 
 
 Next day he interviews the merchants. Curious ! 
 They meet him with long faces. Impassive, he 
 waits. He is puzzled. They tell him that he is yet 
 in their debt. He laughs ; it is a bad joke. Come, 
 pay up ! His men are waiting round the corner, on 
 the pounce. The girls are waiting. At the store 
 near by are bracelets and bangles and hairpins, 
 wonderful hairpins of tortoise-shell bordered with 
 gold filigree and set with stones. They will sparkle 
 in the black hair of the expectant senoritas. Come, 
 pay up ! At Antonio's there is a round table where 
 are dominoes and cards and some old rum that rushes 
 through the veins like fire through the pine-ridge. 
 It is no joke. Our worthy merchants produce their 
 ledgers and their journals and their diaries and their 
 stock-books. Yes ; they are all in order, duly 
 checked. Look ! Against every item is a little tick. 
 That proves it "for sure." Not a doubt about it. 
 Instead of fifteen hundred dollars due from them 
 to him, the boot is on the other foot. What tricks 
 has he been up to ? Sending the stuff across the 
 frontier, they dare swear. He must pay up. No 
 nonsense about that ! He is cornered by the books 
 in front of him and by his men, habitually suspicious, 
 behind. Hot rage and resentment burn within him. 
 Revenge beckons. Nothing to be done at the 
 moment. Lucky for somebody that he is unarmed. 
 He walks out, muttering that he has been robbed. 
 I do not know what he says to his men. 
 
 In the little frontier town of El Cayo, happy 
 hunting ground for Mexican and Guatemalan ruffians
 
 THE CHOICE OF A PROFESSION 29 
 
 and smugglers, Hernandez has friends. Two days' 
 struggle against an unfriendly current and he is 
 among them. A few days later our worthy mer- 
 chants hear of his arrival there. By their sacred 
 books, securely locked away each night in strong 
 safes with combination keys, he owes them fifteen 
 hundred dollars, measured by gold bars, in the bank 
 cellars of Washington and London and Paris — 
 civilized gold. They call upon the law to obtain 
 for them their due. A writ, with all appropriate 
 formality, is issued. Finally, a constable at El 
 Cayo, with this very writ in his hand, approaches 
 Hernandez. What can he know of the subtle 
 distinctions between civil and criminal law ? To 
 him, a warrant and a writ are identical. It is, to 
 him, the heavy hand of Pax Britannica seeking to 
 get him out of the way, so that those rascally 
 merchants shall not be found out. Doubtless they 
 have already squared the Department of Justice. 
 Anyhow, what has justice to do with poor men, 
 save only to oppress them ? He shoots with 
 swift, sure aim. The dead policeman lies on the 
 ground, clutching in his fast-stiffening fingers the 
 fatal writ. 
 
 While outraged justice gasps, running hither and 
 thither, shouting through the telephone, frenziedly 
 drafting reports, Hernandez seeks the shelter of 
 the sombre forest. There is a hue and cry. He 
 instinctively senses it. Mercedes, her eyes no 
 longer bright, nostrils tightly drawn, lips curving 
 downward, comes to Cayo. Mysterious parcels of 
 food and cartridges reach the fugitive. The days 
 grow into weeks. Justice, still outraged, now slackens
 
 30 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 her paces. Time is on her side ; Hernandez will 
 not always remain invisible. Mercedes brightens. 
 There is a bridle track over the Guatemalan moun- 
 tains. It is watched night and day. Policemen 
 are known to sleep on duty. Zigzagging to the 
 north-west is another track into Mexico. Quien 
 sahe ? But the tired eyes of Hernandez look not 
 west, but east. He longs for the embraces of his 
 Mercedes. And he waits, with revenge's untiring 
 patience, for any one or two, or more, of those Belize 
 thieves to come to Cayo. He hides near the river, 
 so near that he can hear the almost silent swish of 
 the paddles. Along the river is a narrow turf road. 
 He thinks he hears the muffled pad-pad of ponies' 
 hoofs. He looks out. Yes ; three ponies and three 
 riders canter toward him. The middle man, Dios ! 
 what luck ! is one of them. His gun rests on a 
 branch. The riders draw level with the rifle's sight. 
 The bullet flies to its billet. Hernandez moves 
 back into the thick bush. He hears a violent 
 galloping and smiles happily. 
 
 Mercedes proves a too powerful magnet. On a 
 dimly moonlit night he creeps into Cayo. Mercedes, 
 sleeping under her mosquito net, feels a hand stealing 
 up to her cheek. She seizes it and passionately 
 kisses it. He moves in beside her. The hours 
 seem minutes. Daylight breaks suddenly ; there is 
 no twihght. In ten minutes the sun is up. Quick ! 
 Hernandez, quick ! Too late ! He looks down the 
 barrel of a rifle. At the other end is a grinning 
 negro. He holds up his hands. The policeman 
 approaches him and foolishly lowers his gun to get 
 the handcuffs. Swift as a startled lizard, Hernandez
 
 THE CHOICE OF A PROFESSION 31 
 
 draws his revolver and another officer of the law 
 has paid the price of fumbUng a sure capture. 
 
 We next hear of Hernandez leading a gang of 
 desperadoes ; sometimes on the Guatemalan side, 
 sometimes on the Mexican side, sometimes in British 
 territory. They camp here ; they camp there ; 
 they move quickly. What's to be done ? His 
 Excellency calls out the mounted volunteers. The 
 Major Commanding invites me to go with them. 
 It seems amusing and a Httle exciting. Armed like 
 the others, I ride with them for a few days. 
 Hernandez hears of our coming, and in an hour or 
 two is over the frontier. We camp for a week in 
 El Cayo, then return, feeling, and doubtless looking, 
 a little ridiculous. On our return, the fugitive is 
 solemnly outlawed with bell, book, and candle. 
 Then the Authorities bethink them of Mercedes. 
 A message comes to her that Hernandez will meet 
 her at any one of three spots. Let her send a 
 message through the usual channel. Poor Mercedes. 
 The bait catches. She shnks away to the appointed 
 place. Hernandez, all aglow, comes out of hiding. 
 Three rifle shots ring out defiant through the glade. 
 Hernandez lies dead. Mercedes shrieks and falls 
 upon him, crying piteously. Three constables seize 
 her roughly and push her aside. They dig a big 
 hole and throw the dead man into it. On the way 
 back, one of the constables tells Mercedes that he 
 would like to have her as his woman. She spits at 
 him. 
 
 Heigho ! For the last two hours I have Hved all 
 this over again. The story arose out of my little 
 dissertation on law. I think, my dear boy, that,
 
 32 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 had you gone to the Bar, I should have urged the 
 Chancery side. The Uttle history of Eleuterio 
 Hernandez perhaps tells you why. 
 
 Your affectionate uncle, 
 
 Anthony Farley. 
 
 P.S. — Of course, if we cannot rely upon the mili- 
 tary, we must conciliate and cajole the labourers. 
 
 A. F.
 
 Ill : THE INNER LIGHT 
 
 My dear George, 
 
 Since you reject law and teaching, I am 
 curious to know whether you have thought of 
 journaHsm. A young man with ;^7oo a year has 
 an excellent chance to achieve a striking career in 
 journalism. You could mount high. But there is 
 a proviso or two. You must have something to say ; 
 or, alternatively, you must have considerable literary 
 adaptabihty to write what somebody else thinks. 
 But you did not go to Cambridge to learn how to be 
 an echo. Therefore, having regard to the dignity 
 of your own soul, I presume that you will leave 
 journahsm severely alone unless you have a sense 
 of some essence, some leavening within you, that 
 will ultimately call for utterance. To adopt a 
 phrase much used by your Quaker ancestors, you 
 must 'feel drawn.' Your father hved and died a 
 Quaker ; I was ' disowned.' But I think the Quakers 
 are in the right of it when they lay such stress, 
 both in theory and practice, upon ' the inner hght.' 
 This ' inner hght ' is not conscience ; it is a totally 
 different quality. Conscience always seems to me 
 to be a negative thing; it makes you feel uneasy 
 when you have done wrong ; but it is a poor guide. 
 Then you would rejoice to be assured that something 
 you are about to do is right. It is as though you 
 stubbed your toe against a stone while walking in 
 the dark. The ' inner light ' would not only have 
 ht your way, so that your person was safe ; you 
 would not have started on your journey unless 
 certain that it was God's will. Thus, you may 
 
 c 33
 
 34 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 reason yourself into a course of action, your con- 
 science being perfectly quiescent, yet unless this 
 Divine wire within you incandesces in response to 
 your reason, then, to adopt another Quaker phrase, 
 ' better wait further light.' It is said that there 
 is a Providence that protects little children and 
 drunken men. I do not pretend to explain it, being 
 of the earth earthy, but it is undoubted that the 
 Quaker habit (not necessarily confined to Quakers) 
 of acting only in accordance with this ' inner light ' 
 goes far to explain that seeming paradox, ' the 
 practical mystic' The most striking example of 
 this type, in the last century, was Abraham Lincoln. 
 Oddly enough (when we think of the great war in 
 which he was the chief protagonist) he, like us, came 
 of Quaker stock. My point is that you must not 
 merely reason yourself into journalism ; you must 
 feel that inner glow. If you do, depend upon it, 
 you will not stub your toe. You will walk with 
 assurance and safety, guided perchance (who knows ?) 
 by that same Providence that protects little children 
 with an impalpable shield. 
 
 Why do I lay so much emphasis upon this ' inner 
 light,' this subjective assurance, in regard to journal- 
 ism, when I did not even mention it in respect of 
 law and teaching ? I will tell you. Because 
 extremes are inherent in the theory and practice 
 of journalism. It is a calling either sacred or of 
 diabolical wickedness. And it entirely depends 
 upon the practitioner. Why sacred ? Because you 
 do not deal merely with ideas in the abstract, but 
 with living issues, out of which proceed conduct and 
 action. If you sit on a jury, you are put on your
 
 THE INNER LIGHT 35 
 
 oath " to well and truly try [why do lawyers always 
 split their infinitives ?] the issues between our 
 Sovereign Lord the King," etc., or whatever is the 
 jargon. How many journalists are there who, if 
 put upon oath, would write what they do ? I reject 
 with scorn the usual defence that a journalist is in 
 the position of a barrister, paid to present a certain 
 point of view. It is an utterly false analogy. It 
 breaks down at the first touch. A barrister is an 
 officer of the Court and his primary duty is to assist 
 the Court. If the judge asks him for the precise 
 law on the point being dealt with, he must tell the 
 judge, regardless of his client's interest. Further, 
 he must not implicitly or explicitly mislead the 
 Court. Further, the judge is presumed to be a more 
 experienced lawyer than the barrister. None of 
 these conditions holds good in respect of a paid 
 journalistic advocate. If he cannot make a better 
 defence than that, let him be packed off incontinent 
 "to his Master, the Father of All Lies." Tell me, 
 then, is it not diabolically wicked to write what you 
 do not believe, when you know that you may 
 influence men's minds and actions ? It is a dreadful 
 thing unconsciously to mislead ; to do it consciously, 
 and for pay ... I would prefer the company of 
 Judas Iscariot. 
 
 In the rehgious sense of the word the journalist 
 must have a ' vocation.' And the Institute of 
 Journalists (if that is the representative body) 
 should, Hke the Church, prepare its calendar of 
 saints. I do not know much about journalists, 
 but there are one or two names I should like to 
 see in that calendar. First among them Frederick
 
 36 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 Greenwood. I think, also, Hutton of The Spectator. 
 They probably never wrote anything that appealed 
 to me — sinner that I am — but I would go bail that 
 Greenwood never wrote a line he did not sincerely 
 believe and very few lines perfunctorily. If you 
 were going into journalism (£700 a year assured), 
 I would advise you to model your work on Green- 
 wood's. Above all, you must know when to remain 
 silent. If you cannot write with certainty, then do 
 not write at all, or frankly admit your doubts and 
 let your readers feel and know that your conclu- 
 sions are tentative. The usual journalistic pose of 
 omniscience sickens sensible men, I live in hopes 
 that, some day, some writer will leave a blank 
 column with the announcement : " Waiting for light." 
 I suppose, however, the proprietor must be con- 
 sidered. Did you ever hear of the leader-writer 
 who came into the office with nothing ready and 
 the comps. waiting ? He was drunk. His editor 
 addressed him in pointed language. " All right, 
 old cock," he hiccoughed, " hand me the shears." 
 Taking the current issue of The Times, he cut out 
 the leading article, headed it : " What Does The 
 Times Mean By This ? " and, hey presto ! his space 
 was filled, truth was honoured and curiosity piqued. 
 I can see you smiling as you smoke a foul pipe. 
 (Why do you let your pipes get so rank ? Give 
 them a good scrape and leave them in whisky 
 overnight.) I can almost hear you saying : " By 
 Jove ! the Old Boy is pitching it very high." To 
 be sure I am. If I discuss the Church of England 
 with an AngHcan, I treat him as though he were 
 the Archbishop of Canterbury, the veritable head
 
 THE INNER LIGHT 37 
 
 of the Church, bound, in conscience and not by 
 ecclesiastical poHcy, to hand on the faith unimpaired, 
 unfractured by a comma. Do not tell me that 
 there are thousands of clergymen, who live harm- 
 less and fairly useful Hves, to whom the finer points 
 of the creed are remote, just as there are thousands 
 of decently minded journalists who do nothing in 
 particular, certainly nothing that offends their 
 conscience. I know all about these journeymen. I 
 wish them well. But it is those who are responsible 
 for the principles and tendencies of journalism with 
 whom one must discuss the fundamental things. As 
 a mere outsider, a simple-minded planter, I to-day 
 look at the higher reaches of journalism, and I 
 affirm that, in spirit and faith, in the essentials of 
 truth-telHng, it has never sunk so low. Its in- 
 iidelities are obscured in its mechanical efficiency. 
 Not by design but by Providence do its thousand 
 falsehoods nullify each other. 
 
 I ascribe this spiritual decadence to two main 
 causes : the invasion of the sanctuary by com- 
 mercial interests and the debasing theory of the paid 
 advocate. 
 
 Let me again remind you of your Quaker ancestry. 
 Your forefathers would have sacrificed anything to 
 preserve their belief that a paid ministry and the 
 free utterance of truth were incompatible. If any 
 man or woman was moved by the Spirit of God 
 to utter some truth, some hope, some doubt, some 
 prayer, then let him do it. Nay, more ; he must 
 do it. Imagine their horror at the modern journal- 
 istic conception that this should be done at so much 
 per speech, so much per prayer ! "A counsel of
 
 38 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 perfection," you may say. Not a bit of it. We 
 must, of course, consider the writing habit in relation 
 to life. 
 
 In many parts of Europe, notably in Italy and 
 Austria, in a little cubby-hole, generally near some 
 cathedral or church, you will find a discreet old man 
 who, for a small consideration, writes letters for 
 illiterates. Young men and women, through this 
 medium, send impassioned missives to their lovers ; 
 older men and women communicate on more material 
 topics. The same thing is found in Central America. 
 Some time ago, a negro in Puerto Cortez asked me 
 to give him a job on the estate. I told him to go 
 there and work would be found for him. A week 
 or two later, I received the following letter, written 
 in a very clerkly hand : 
 
 " Sir, 
 
 " I beg to advise you that I shall reach your 
 estate next Thursday, on board the schooner Corozal 
 (Captain Gardner, 25 tons). 
 
 " I trust it will be convenient for you to receive 
 me at your pier. 
 
 " I am, sir, your obedient servant, 
 
 "Aloysius Ferguson." 
 
 A few weeks later he asked me to write a letter for 
 him to his wife. He insisted on beginning : "Beloved 
 and honest spouse." Nowadays we write our own 
 love letters, at least I always do. If I can assist 
 you at any time, pray command me. 
 
 Very good ; we do our own writing. But is it 
 to be confined only to affairs of the heart or the
 
 THE INNER LIGHT 39 
 
 body ? Why not the mind and the soul ? In other 
 days every gentleman was expected to be proficient 
 with sword, rapier, or pistol. I think that now he 
 ought to be equally proficient with his pen. Some 
 of the best writers of recent years have been plain 
 business-men : Bagehot, Clodd, Graham, Hodgkin, 
 and several others. When the habit of serious 
 writing spreads, depend upon it, the paid advocate's 
 day will be over. We shall, of course, have pro- 
 fessional journalists. To edit and sub-edit a paper 
 requires experience, knowledge, and skill. Even 
 more important, flair. If journalism is to recover 
 its good name, the element of sincerity must be re- 
 introduced. And the most sincere writing, in the 
 region of ideas particularly, must be done by men 
 who write because they must, because they are truly 
 moved by the Spirit. Most assuredly not because 
 they are paid for it. 
 
 It is evident, too, that journalists must learn to 
 respect themselves and their profession. I notice 
 that any untrained scribbler calls himself a journalist. 
 Just as many women before the magistrate used to 
 describe themselves as actresses, so to-day it is not 
 unusual for any adventurer or failure to claim 
 journalism as his profession. Did I ever speak to 
 you of Thomas Smithson ? Probably not. Indeed, 
 I haven't thought of him for years. He came to me 
 with a letter of introduction from Jack Hurley. 
 
 " Dear Tony [it read], 
 
 " The bearer of this letter, Mr Thomas Smith- 
 son, has been until recently the Minister of the 
 Unitarian Church which I am wrongly supposed to
 
 40 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 attend. I would go with pleasure, but the morning 
 meeting clashes with my golf and the evening meeting 
 with dinner. When Father died I continued his sub- 
 scription. I wish now I hadn't. From what I can 
 gather from Adeline, Smithson seems to have been 
 preaching the most subversive rot. Anyhow, all the 
 decent members of the fraternity or congregation, 
 or whatever they call themselves, got up on their 
 hind legs and kicked up Pandemonium. The 
 working-class members, most of whom are employed 
 at our works, rather liked it. Personally, I didn't 
 care a brass farthing. Adeline said that it was only 
 my subscription that kept the show going. It didn't 
 seem quite cricket to put the poor devil on his 
 beam ends, so I called him up the other day and 
 suggested that probably a year's rest and earnest 
 thought would restore his jangled nerves. Luckily 
 he jumped at it. Adeline and her prig of a husband 
 are quite perky about it and are busy looking round 
 for some ass with a degree — I think they are rather 
 keen on a B.D. Smithson insists on going to 
 London, where he will be probably gobbled up by 
 you clever blighters. Give him a leg-up. 
 " Yours, in the service of God, 
 
 " Jack." 
 
 As I read this ingenuous letter, Mr Thomas 
 Smithson sat awkwardly on the corner of a chair. 
 I told him that anything I could do for a man so 
 deeply respected, I might also say revered, by my 
 friend Mr Hurley would most readily be done. 
 Then he told me how that he had risen from the 
 lowly position of an insurance collector ; that always
 
 THE INNER LIGHT 41 
 
 his heart had bled for the people ; that the wealthy 
 members of his congregation were deeply unsym- 
 pathetic, except Mr Hurley, to whom he always 
 went for support ; that finally his conscience had 
 led him to seek a wider sphere of labour in London. 
 I asked him what he proposed to do. " Why, sir," 
 said he, "I wield a ready and facile pen." My sense 
 of humour was too much for me. Putting on a look 
 of consternation, I said : " Don't ! " He sprang up, 
 his eyes flashed through his spectacles, his moustache 
 and beard stiffened Hke porcupine quills. " I see, 
 sir, that you also are cynical and worldly-minded." 
 Smoothing him down (I had clearly treated a guest 
 discourteously) I gave him tea, took his address, and 
 promised to write to him. Just then, as luck had it, 
 a semi-sinecure job turned up and Smithson got it. 
 He writes in obscure magazines, sometimes getting 
 2s. 6d. or 5s. He has a new baby with distressing 
 frequency, and I am godfather to his eldest son. 
 On his letter-head you will read : "Thomas Smithson, 
 Author and Journalist." 
 
 Your affectionate uncle, 
 
 Anthony Farley.
 
 IV : PLAYING THE GAME 
 
 My dear George, 
 
 I was very glad to receive your letter in which 
 you question an observation of mine upon the 
 teaching profession. " Surely," you exclaim, " a 
 man may be a gentleman whatever his occupation." 
 And I agree. What I wrote, or intended to write, 
 was that, pedagogy being asleep or dead, mere 
 teaching was not an occupation for a gentleman. 
 That, you will observe, does not preclude a teacher 
 from being a gentleman. To assert it would be 
 foolish, because we know that many teachers are 
 gentlemen. But are you quite sure that every 
 gentleman can resist the demoralizing influences of an 
 occupation from which the spirit has fled ? You 
 may set out to be an honest teacher, but how if the 
 teaching currency be debased ? No gentleman, I 
 take it, would knowingly deal in base coin, although 
 unknowingly he may do it without offence to his 
 conscience. I have observed that this is really the 
 case with gentlemen who teach. They are imbued 
 with the idealism and the great spiritual possibilities 
 of their calling. They fail to see that society has 
 devitalized their ideals and rendered futile their 
 efforts. But if you enter the profession knowing 
 these facts, then you cease to be a gentleman, 
 because you have joined in an ungentlemanly con- 
 spiracy with your eyes open. I think that here is 
 the key to much that puzzles us in the character and 
 conduct of individuals. They are gentlemen because 
 of their credulity. They do things because it is 
 ' the custom of the trade,' as the lawyers put it, 
 
 42
 
 PLAYING THE GAME 43 
 
 quite blind to the inherent dishonesty or caddishness 
 of the custom. For my part, I hke a man to know 
 what he is about. 
 
 In our own more civilized community we know- 
 ingly play with five aces. Thus, in social affairs, 
 we adopt a habit of rigid fairness ; we condemn 
 unfairness as ' not cricket.' But in the far more 
 serious business of wealth-production, the basis of 
 social life, we are absolved from ungentlemanly 
 conduct by our defence that ' business is business.' 
 How different, too, are the ethics of the counting- 
 house or factory from the amenities of our social 
 relations ! In good schools sneaking is practically 
 unknown. If it exist, the offender is very properly 
 kicked. I have seen boys go from school into business 
 and in a few months not only sneak but be re- 
 warded for sneaking by an employer who was him- 
 self a public school boy. " Quite right, Smith ; I 
 am glad to see that you have the interests of the 
 business at heart. Let me see, how much are you 
 getting ? Ah ! Well, times are hard, but I think 
 we could squeeze out another pound a month." 
 This man, the head of a " house famous for its fair 
 dealing," as the trade journals assert, is still furious 
 at the memory of a Varsity match when the Cam- 
 bridge bowler sent down wides to prevent the follow- 
 on, while the Oxford batsman put down his wicket to 
 secure it. " Not cricket, sir, damn it all, not cricket ! " 
 you can hear him say should the incident crop up. 
 
 You may kick your old uncle if you catch him 
 moralizing on inconsistencies like these. Alas ! I 
 am too old for highfalutin. Besides, I have done 
 worse things myself. Nor is there any moral that
 
 44 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 I know of. There is a general conclusion to which 
 most sane men would agree ; that, until we under- 
 stand that we do not Uve to chisel each other, but 
 rather to co-operate frankly and honestly in making 
 life easy, charming, and fruitful, you have no alter- 
 native but to enter the game and play it in its full 
 rigour. You cannot succeed if, giving full meaning 
 and significance to the word, you play it as gentlemen. 
 To be a gentleman in serious business spells failure, 
 and I do not want you to be a failure. Your father 
 would have sunk into the deeps rather than do an 
 ungentlemanly thing. A veil was mercifully spread 
 over his eyes. He thought life was a pretty decent 
 affair, only requiring a trifling reform here and there. 
 Nothing, you understand, to disturb the current of 
 business ; just reform gradually applied, Hke arnica 
 on bumps. But, if you ask any candid man of the 
 world, he will tell you that our whole social and 
 economic fabric is built upon the insecure foundation 
 of the working man's ignorance or compliance. 
 
 I wonder whether, in your approved Varsity 
 manner, you will remind me that I have not yet 
 defined a gentleman. To the deuce with your 
 definitions ! Send no mincing professor of logic 
 to me to admonish me that I " must first define 
 my terms," If he comes I will drown or poison him. 
 How can you define the indefinable ? Define for me, 
 if you please, the moral squint that denotes a cad ; 
 define, if you can, the spiritual apperceptions that 
 make a gentleman — apperceptions, mark you, that 
 outrank age and caste, that are unrelated to good 
 taste, to fastidiousness, to those solemn conventions 
 upon which we set such store.
 
 PLAYING THE GAME 45 
 
 In my Socialist days, when I was young and care- 
 free, I trapsed all over the country lecturing. Heaven 
 forgive me ! Shallow calling to shallows. Still, I 
 do not regret it. Tout au contraire ! I am rather 
 proud of it. To stand up on a chair, or a box, in 
 the market-place and speak out what you do veritably 
 believe is good for the soul. It all went into my 
 making. With that stodgy back-number, Southey, 
 I say without blushing : 
 
 Do I regret the past ? 
 
 Would I live o'er again 
 
 The morning hours of life ? 
 
 Nay, William, nay, not so ! 
 
 Praise be to God who made me what I am, 
 
 Other I would not be. 
 
 Well, in the course of my peregrinations, I came to 
 Darlington. I was met by a little deputation of 
 young men, each with a new heaven and earth in his 
 waistcoat pocket. Outside the station a private 
 carriage waited. I was shown in and my companions 
 followed. " Hello ! " said I, " why this swagger ? " 
 " Owd Jack did it," said one of them. " Who the 
 deuce is he ? " I asked. " Just Owd Jack," said 
 they. "Am I his guest?" "Aye." "What's 
 his name ? " " Jack Harden." " A local manu- 
 facturer ? " " Nay." " Hang it all, what is he ? " 
 " A commission agent," said one of them, just as 
 though Jack Harden might be a grocer or any other 
 tradesman. I pledge my word I did not know what 
 a commission agent was. I thought that probably 
 he sold goods on commission. They must be jolly 
 good commissions, I thought to myself. We soon 
 arrived at an ornate house, complete, and even
 
 46 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 replete, with all the modern conveniences. A 
 short, stout man, black - eyed, hawk-nosed, lips 
 covered by a black, silky moustache over an imperial 
 tuft, welcomed me. " Coom in, lad ; glad to see 
 thee ; how art tha ? " He plumped me down in a 
 comfortable chair and called for drinks. " Happen 
 tha'l't be hoongry ? " I said I was. " Reet, owd 
 lad, the victuals are ready." We passed into the 
 dining-room, furnished in approved dark oak, and 
 sat down to a dinner as substantial as the furniture. 
 " Have a pint of fizz, lad." " And you ? " I asked. 
 " Nay, nay, a flim-flam gargle ; stout for me." He 
 drank two quarts. He took off his coat ; he un- 
 buttoned his waistcoat, disclosing in the process a 
 most unsightly protuberance. He gobbled his food ; 
 his drink gurgled in his throat. He did every con- 
 ceivable thing at the table repellent to my gentle- 
 manly instincts. " By the way," said I, "they tell 
 me you are a commission agent. What's your line 
 of goods ? " For a moment he looked hard at me, 
 wondering if I was pulling his leg. Then he broke 
 into loud laughter. " Why, lad, doesn't tha' knaw 
 that I'm a betting man ? " " Really ! " said I, 
 " how very interesting," and tried to look like a 
 Fabian researcher. 
 
 You remember, do you not, that our distant 
 cousins, the Terriers, live in Darlington ? On the 
 Sunday afternoon, leaving Harden snoring on a big 
 sofa after a gargantuan meal, I made my way to 
 Aunt Mary's. I found her giving tea to a lot of 
 people. " Why, Tony, where did you spring from ? " 
 she exclaimed. " A little visit," I murmured. 
 " Where are you staying ? " she asked. It suddenly
 
 PLAYING THE GAME 47 
 
 flashed upon me that I was ashamed to tell her that 
 my host was a bookie. " At the hotel," I answered. 
 " Which ? " she asked. I knew no hotel in the place. 
 " Do you know, Aunt Mary, I don't remember its 
 name. It's the big brick affair with stone facings." 
 "That would be the 'Castle,' my dear." "I 
 believe you're right," said I, brightening. "Well, 
 you'll stay to dinner." "Sorry, can't; 'nother en- 
 gagement ; just had to look you up." Dick Ferrier 
 came down to the hall to see me off. " May see you 
 at the ' Castle ' to-night," said he, " httle private 
 party." " Fact is, Dick, I'm a gay deceiver. I'm 
 down here to give a Socialist lecture and I'm staying 
 with John Harden. Couldn't tell that to Aunt 
 Mary, y'know." " By Jove ! You don't say so ! I 
 owe the beggar three hundred of the brightest and 
 best. Can't pay in a hundred years. Wish you'd 
 put in a word for me." " Are you serious ? " " Good 
 God, yes ! " " Why not ask Uncle Richard for it ? " 
 " Don't be a silly ass ; he'd turn me out of the busi- 
 ness." "I'm sorry, Dick, but I nevermet Harden until 
 last night and obviously I'm unable to help you." 
 
 That night Harden took the chair for my lecture. 
 I remember it very well, although two or three years 
 before you were born. " Ah'm glad to take t' chair 
 for oor lect'rer. Ah'm jiist t' same now as ah was 
 when a barber, shaving you chaps at three ha'pence 
 a time. Ah've got a bit o' brass in t' bank, but that 
 doan't change me. Ah'm heart and soul in t' labour 
 movement, because t' capitalists and liindloords 
 doan't gie a square deal. Ah know 'em ! Soom 
 on 'em are decent as you or me ; soom on 'em . . . ! 
 They calls themselves gentlemen. Gentlemen ! They
 
 48 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 meets me in t' street and doan't know me ; but they 
 coom vera secret to m' little office and says : ' Jack, 
 owd lad, I canna pay thee to-day ; thou must gie 
 me more time.' They says they pays their debts 
 o' honour. Most on 'em pays when they dam well 
 got to. Nay, my lads, they doan't gie anybody a 
 square deal. If we ha' spunk, why we're gude as 
 them ; if we ha'nt spunk, why, what's t' gude o' 
 talk? " Then I deHvered an ingenuous and harm- 
 less lecture on " SociaHsm and the Christian Ethic." 
 
 Next morning, at breakfast. Harden asked me 
 where I had gone to on the previous afternoon. 
 "Mrs Ferrier," I said; "she's a relation of mine." 
 " Happen she's t' mother o' young Dicky Ferrier? " 
 " Yes ; a bright boy and might do something in the 
 world if he doesn't get in with the wrong crowd." 
 " Aye," he mused, " Aye. Cooms o' gude stock. 
 A blood relation o' thine ? " " Yes." Then I 
 hurried off to the train. 
 
 A week later came a letter from Master Dick, with 
 too many flourishes to my Uking. 
 
 "Dear Tony, 
 
 " A thousand thanks ! Old Jack met me 
 y'day and said that if I would cut out gambhng and 
 do something ' kind and canny ' he would wipe out 
 the £300. Fancy that ! But I suppose you had a 
 lot to do with it. 
 
 " However, gambhng is a rotten game and I 
 agreed. ' Shake hands on it, lad,' said he. So we 
 solemnly shook. 
 
 " Your aff. coz., 
 
 " R. Stanley Ferrier."
 
 PLAYING THE GAME 49 
 
 After that, my boy, if you still insist upon the 
 definition of a gentleman, let's drop the subject ! 
 
 I enclose you a tradesman's bill which I inadver- 
 tently opened. Forgive me. I could not, however, 
 fail to notice that last year you spent over £17 on 
 underwear. Much too much ! £5 covers me easily. 
 Do you watch your clothing and see that there is no 
 leakage ? Without taking too much thought for 
 the morrow, there is nothing derogatory in keeping 
 a sort of inventory. And don't be ashamed to 
 have your underclothing mended and your socks 
 darned. Not to do so is the mark of the nouveaux 
 riches ; to do so is one of the minor marks of a 
 gentleman. 
 
 Your affectionate uncle, 
 
 Anthony Farley.
 
 V: MEDICINE 
 
 Dear George, 
 
 With £700 a year you could cut some figure 
 in the new despotism which we call ' medicine ' 
 in our temperate moments. It would be said of 
 you that you had ' private means ' (' private ' is 
 delightful) and followed your profession for the love 
 of it. You could practise in some poverty-stricken 
 area, and, in ten years, find yourself with an im- 
 pregnable seat in Parliament. A shilling practice 
 is very remunerative. You could settle in the most 
 exclusive suburb of some manufacturing town and 
 marry a millionaire's daughter. Better still, you 
 could avoid the life of a general practitioner and 
 devote yourself to the study of the laboratory. You 
 could then invent some antitoxin and get it placed 
 on the market by some drug-making concern on 
 half-shares. You would, of course, write or read 
 a paper upon the subject and veil the actual con- 
 coction in a cloud of verbal hugger-mugger. You 
 must do this to escape any possible proceedings 
 against you for unprofessional conduct. ' In- 
 famous ' is, I think, the technical term. Your 
 medical brethren would then stand solid behind you 
 and you could hold up the British Army until every 
 rank and filer had been inoculated. Later on you 
 could become a consultant and earn £10,000 a year. 
 Or you could take to surgery, if your fingers are 
 strong and pliable. Then you would invent some 
 disease somewhere which is only curable by the 
 knife. If you hypnotize the profession, cases will 
 be sent to you, and for every operation you can get 
 
 50
 
 MEDICINE 51 
 
 anything up to ;{ioo. Good business, my boy, good 
 business ! 
 
 There are certain resemblances between the 
 medicine-men and the priests. Both do quite a 
 lot of good in their various ways. A priest, for 
 example, makes an excellent executor (don't be 
 afraid ! No priest for me !) and often advises wisely 
 as to the disposition of an estate. If occasionally 
 he does a stroke of business for Mother Church, or 
 some charity in which he is interested, well, why not ? 
 We are all of us human. He composes family 
 quarrels and even village feuds. As often as not 
 he is the only educated man in the neighbourhood, 
 and that makes for social sanity. In Ireland he is 
 a deft hand at match-making. " Do ye see that 
 wumman there ? " an Irish farmer said to me. " She 
 came within £10 of being me woife. At the last 
 moment Father Flanagan got Shamus Flynn to 
 spring another £10 for Bridget, so I closed wid him 
 and split the difference wid his riverence." I do 
 not doubt that the administration of the ' last 
 offices ' (whatever they are — I haven't the least 
 notion) is grateful and comforting to the dying. 
 A priest with a gift for statesmanship can often 
 prove of more than passing value — Father Findlay, 
 for example, of the Irish Technical and Education 
 Board. In like manner doctors are socially useful. 
 Trained in extreme cleanliness, they often compel 
 their own neighbourhood to cleanly habits. This 
 leads to communal sanitation and the decrease 
 of disease. This decrease they then ascribe to in- 
 oculation. It's really rather funny. It is the ' tone ' 
 of medicine to act as a counterpoise to the Church.
 
 52 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 " See what we do by faith," says the Church. " See 
 what we do by science," retorts Medicine. Any 
 controversy of that kind also makes for social 
 sanity. 
 
 But the trouble with the doctor, as with the priest, 
 is that, as often as not, he really believes in his own 
 nostrums. It sounds incredible ; it is true. Take i 
 vaccination, for example. Common sense has long 
 since knocked the bottom out of it. Since Jenner 
 (or whoever it was) experimented with his filthy 
 cow-pox and proclaimed it a sure prophylactic against 
 small-pox the medical profession has been driven 
 back from one line of defence to another. I ques- 
 tion if there are now a thousand sane men in the 
 country, outside the profession, who believe in it. 
 Having quite obviously rid ourselves of small-pox 
 by ordinary sanitation, the medicine-men come back 
 smiling with half a dozen other filthy messes which 
 they would pump into our blood. This new business 
 of inoculation is an attempt by the doctors to re- 
 cover their old monopoly of the art of tattooing. I 
 do not doubt that their native confreres in Siam, 
 Malay, Timbuctoo, Ashanti, and Patagonia are 
 lending their moral and financial support. We must 
 remember that in these countries tattooing has 
 always been regarded as a prophylactic. In Europe 
 the doctors tattoo against some devil which they 
 affirm is in the body ; the coloured fraternity affirm 
 that these devils reside in the air and are frightened 
 off by properly conceived tattoo marks. There 
 seems to be about as much evidence on one side as 
 the other. 
 
 We may reasonably hope that the present in-
 
 MEDICINE 53 
 
 ociilation craze that is sweeping over medicine like 
 measles will soon exhaust itself. And we must 
 remember that the vast majority of doctors are very 
 lightly affected by it. They go about their business 
 of curing diseases, the cures being acquired by safe 
 empirical methods. I like to think that they rely 
 less and less on drugs and more and more on common 
 sense. The side that has yielded most to common 
 sense is preventive medicine. There is surely a 
 splendid and useful work to be done in that direction. 
 To guide the community into healthy and cleanly 
 habits is surely work worth doing. To teach a 
 young mother how to nurture her child ; to see 
 to it that the eyes, nostrils, teeth, bodies, and limbs 
 of school-children are kept fit ; to ensure ample 
 leisure in good surroundings for ' young persons ' 
 (as the law designates them) ; to insist upon sound 
 sanitary arrangements in factories and workshops ; 
 to make it criminal to let unhealthy dwellings ; to 
 sweep away whole areas that are palpably insanitary 
 — and damn the cost. It is in these directions that 
 medicine can best work out its humane mission. 
 Nor can it be denied that our public medical officers 
 are building up an enviable record. They are 
 handicapped by propertied interests ; they are 
 tripped and tricked by auctioneers, house agents, 
 rent-collectors, and even by the frightened and 
 unhappy denizens of the disease-stricken areas. 
 But they steadily pursue their way and reduce 
 the death-rate, even if they do not intensify our 
 vitality. 
 
 It is, however, in preventive medicine that we 
 find the germ — a developed germ, I fear — of the new
 
 54 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 despotism. The medical mandarins say that if 
 they are to prevent disease they must be given 
 despotic powers. You see it most distinctly in the 
 Panama zone. The doctor rules there with a heavy 
 hand. He has, of course, considerable sanction, 
 because of the danger of tropical fevers. He has 
 to his credit the medical administration that stamped 
 out yellow fever and reduced malaria to a minimum. 
 But he does not stop there ; he accumulates more 
 power from year to year. He has frightened the 
 Government into helpless acquiescence. I happened 
 to be taking tea last year at Culebra with the wife 
 of an important official. She was in some distress. 
 The previous day one of the medical force paid her 
 a social visit. While he was there her little girl 
 sneezed. " Good gracious ! Let me see her," said 
 the doctor. " Ah ! a slight snuffle ; might be 
 scarlet fever. She must go to the isolation hospital. 
 I will hurry off and order an ambulance." " But, 
 doctor," cried the distracted mother, " I know it's 
 only a slight cold." " Possibly you're right, Mrs 
 Despard, but we can't take risks." " Well, wait till 
 to-morrow." " No ; we never wait." " Let me go 
 with her ; she's all I have," pleaded the mother. 
 *' Sorry ; no. Mothers are a nuisance up there." 
 The little girl was taken away and one more ' case ' 
 added to the records to prove how vigilant are the 
 zone doctors. Never, even in the days of ancient 
 Egypt, did priest or rulers exercise such unrestrained 
 dominion. Things are not so bad as that in England 
 just yet. But not even with the medical fraternity 
 must we relax the salutary rule that experts are good 
 servants but bad and dangerous masters.
 
 MEDICINE 55 
 
 If I am a little incredulous about the omniscience 
 of doctors it by no means follows that I disbelieve 
 entirely in them. We must acknowledge that they 
 have at their command a great store of accumu- 
 lated knowledge. But I prefer, in this instance, the 
 empirical to the rational. When they argue from 
 the rational, experimenting upon our bodies from 
 pure theory, I fear for my life. But when they tell 
 me that, in practice, a disease treated in such and 
 such a way has yielded good results, then I am willing 
 to take my chances. Beyond that, no, thank you ! 
 A few miles north of the estate, old Fernando Migail 
 has a nice little lot of grape-fruit trees. He is a 
 cantankerous old curmudgeon, as self-opinionated 
 as he is stupid. His wife hates him, while his two 
 sons want him out of the way. He will not pack 
 his fruit, as the merchants want it, in grades. " No," 
 he grunts ; " there's the stuff, take it or leave it." 
 And so he throws away good money. A little while 
 ago he trod on a ' Tommy Gough ' snake, one of 
 our very worst. In a trice the creature had its 
 fangs in old Fernando's thigh. He whipped out 
 his jack-knife and cut away for dear life. No luck ! 
 The poison began its deadly work. He dragged 
 his way home. The family, inwardly not sorry, at 
 least did their duty. Post-haste they send for the 
 medical officer. For three long hours does old 
 Fernando grunt and groan and swear volubly in 
 English and Spanish. The medical officer comes 
 and examines him. " We may save your life if 
 we amputate," he declares. " What ! Take off 
 my leg ! No ; death first." "It's the only way," 
 says the medical officer. " All right ! Don't bother
 
 56 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 me ; I'll die in peace. What happens, happens." 
 The medical officer goes out to meet the wife. " His 
 number's up ! " says he. " Well, doctor," says she, 
 " would you kindly order a coffin from the carpenter 
 when you get back ? " " Certainly," says he, " but 
 we must get his proper size." " I have it," says she, 
 all ready with the figures, on a dirty little piece of 
 paper. The medical officer puts it in his pocket and 
 gallops off. He arrives home and gives the order 
 to the carpenter. " Hurry up ! They'll want it 
 in the morning." 
 
 Meantime old Fanny, the bush doctor, waits 
 outside Fernando' s house. She knows the family 
 want him to die, or why should they send for the 
 white doctor ? So she slips in to Fernando when 
 nobody is looking. "Bad, bad, bad," says Fanny 
 in an even voice. " Get busy, you damned old 
 witch," says Fernando. " Ten dollars," says Fanny 
 smoothly, with leering eye. "Over there in the 
 desk, you dirty thief." Fanny tiptoes over and 
 gets the money. Then she brings out her herbs 
 and her decoctions and doses old Fernando. All 
 night does Fanny apply her remedies that are 
 not found in the British Pharmacopoeia. Outside, 
 Fernando's wife dozes in a chair, dreaming of peace 
 and quiet. In another room the two sons sit and 
 think of big profits made out of their properly graded 
 fruit. Dawn quickly passes into bright sunshine. 
 The family silently move into the room to perform 
 the last services to the dead. Old Fernando hes 
 on his bed and reads their thoughts. He orders 
 them out. 
 
 Curiosity takes the doctor out on the morning of
 
 MEDICINE 57 
 
 the third day. He finds old Fernando still in bed, 
 but " doing nicely, thank you, Doc." " Let's see 
 it," says the medical officer. So he examines it. 
 " Yes ; it's just as I said. Gangrene has set in. Shall 
 I operate at once ? " " Go to blazes ! " shouts old 
 Fernando. 
 
 In due course he recovers, to the consternation of 
 his happy family and the amusement of the rest of 
 us. The carpenter leaves the coffin at the doctor's 
 door. The doctor wants to sell a coffin. Two or 
 three are at Death's door ; but they make their 
 relatives promise not to buy the coffin made for old 
 Fernando, for if they are put in it they will go to 
 hell without doubt. 
 
 A few days later I told this story to the principal 
 medical officer. "Nothing surprises me," he says. 
 " When I was medical officer at Corozal a mahogany 
 teamsman had his leg crushed by a big log that 
 rolled back on him. I rode out to him. Leg was 
 just mush — just mush ! I said : ' Bill, it's got to 
 come off.' ' No,' said he ; ' take my leg and you take 
 my living.' He wouldn't budge. So I iixed him 
 up as comfortably as possible, put his leg in splints 
 and hung its support from a branch, covered him with 
 a fly-net, and generally did all I could for him. In 
 three months he was walking about. 
 
 " Yes," said he ; "I remember that case for 
 another reason. Just then we were having trouble 
 with the Indians. One of them crawled up and 
 potted at me at close range while I was bending 
 over my patient. The bullet nicked my ear. Close 
 call ! I did not think about it, being absorbed, 
 until riding home. Then the flies got at the wound
 
 58 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 and gave me gip." " Did you amputate the ear ? " 
 I asked. " Don't be a damned fool," said the prin- 
 cipal medical officer ; " the drinks are on you." 
 There ! I grow reminiscent. Old age ! 
 Your affectionate uncle, 
 
 Anthony Farley.
 
 VI : THE SERVICE OF THE STATE 
 
 My dear George, 
 
 You tell me that not one of the liberal pro- 
 fessions appeals to you, but that some congenial 
 and useful work might be found in the Civil Service. 
 I would not discourage you, I am not sure if the 
 future does not contain many rich gifts for those 
 who directly enter the service of the State. But a 
 different type of civil servant will be demanded, 
 notably men who are technically proficient in some 
 branch of wealth production. You remark that just 
 now the responsibility of the Civil Service must be 
 almost too heavy to be borne, and finally add that 
 you cannot understand my silence on the war. 
 
 I have been silent because I knew not what to 
 write. Inter arma silent scriptores. In a business 
 such as this, so stupendous, creating, in a few short 
 months, a new epoch, it is better to be mute unless 
 one has the mot juste. In vain have the pamphleteers 
 hammered at my brain — the Oxford group, Shaw, 
 Wells, and the rest. They leave me cold and un- 
 responsive. Cold, because I cannot see any reason 
 for their intervention ; unresponsive because they 
 throw no light upon the realities. Wells sees in 
 the war endless opportunities for nagging. He has 
 spent twenty years writing fiction, believing it to 
 be the truth ; Shaw has spent thirty years writing 
 what he believed to be the truth, when all the 
 time it was fiction far more diverting than Wells's 
 febrile fascination for the sexual. Each has a 
 public numbering a thousand or two ; each believes 
 that he influences men's actions. If it were true, 
 
 59
 
 6o LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 then they would be a couple of mischief-makers ; 
 as it is, they are both nuisances, mosquitoes 
 buzzing in a bed-net. The Oxford group would 
 have us believe that we entered the war with 
 humanitarian motives to kill the monster of 
 mihtarism. If I am thrown into a swift current, 
 I am a fool to shout that I went in to fight 
 the current. My business is to get out with the 
 least damage to myself and without mock heroics. 
 And when I am back on dry ground, the only 
 possible advantage that can accrue is some small 
 improvement in my swimming. Moreover, if four 
 or five other fellows are thrown in with me, and two 
 of them are dro^\^led, I am no richer for their loss. 
 There is a change, however. " One cannot step 
 twice into the same river," said HeracHtus. Truly, 
 " all things flow." 
 
 In these troubled months my mind has constantly 
 reverted to the last great epoch — the French Revolu- 
 tion. It is curious that the only account of that 
 period that sticks in my mind is Carlyle's, His 
 ' facts ' are long since out of date ; factors have been 
 disclosed that were unknown to him. Yet his 
 picture remains the most consistent and his story 
 the most credible. I have been wondering whether 
 this is not due to his method. When your letter 
 came I pondered what Carlyle would have written. 
 In an idle moment I began an exercise in the Carlyhan 
 method. Perhaps it may interest you : 
 s^S" All through the days and nights of July the 
 British Foreign Secretary has premonitions : is 
 conscious of pending events pregnant with fate and 
 fraught with indefinable menace. He passes to his
 
 THE SERVICE OF THE STATE 6i 
 
 seat in Parliament, grave, preoccupied. He sits 
 listening to the clatter of irresponsible Tapers, of 
 Tadpoles, swelling with self-importance like the 
 fabled frog. He listens uncomprehending, for his 
 thoughts wander to the Ballplatz in Vienna, to 
 Belgrade, where in that square, flat-roofed house, 
 sit Pashitch and Jonanovitch in anxious consultation. 
 The Serajevo bullet has penetrated to the heart of 
 Europe. Pashitch measures the chances of Russian 
 support ; he knows that neither Russia nor France 
 wants war ; he knows that the Dual Monarchy 
 would crush Serbia and now has a diplomatic pretext. 
 The British Foreign Secretary, seated in isolation, 
 tries to pierce the thoughts, the intentions of these 
 actors in this the first act of Europe's terrible 
 drama. The moods of the House, evanescent, 
 shadows of clouds upon the waters, barely touch 
 him. No smile relieves the stern, set face, its skin 
 drawn tightly over aquiline nose and square jaw. 
 His weary eyes scan closely the human elements 
 around and about him. He knows that the wolves 
 are gathering, hungry, growling. Is this an assembly 
 of sheep ? In a few short weeks will the wolves' 
 fangs be at their throats ? The words of the 
 Viennese Militdrische Rimdschau, read by ambitious 
 officers, who only in war win laurels, ferment in his 
 brain : ' If we do not decide for war, the war we 
 shall have to make in two or three years at the latest 
 will be begun in circumstances much less propitious. 
 Now the initiative belongs to us. . . . Since some 
 day we shall have to accept the struggle let us 
 provoke it at once.' Provoke ! Ominous initiative ! 
 The military men have been recently impressing
 
 62 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 him with the capital importance of initiative. By 
 delay, by striving for peace to the very end, he 
 knowingly yields this advantage to the enemy. 
 So be it ! There are moral considerations not to 
 be lightly disregarded — nay, that must, whatever 
 the hazard, be obeyed at the peril of his soul and 
 the treasured good faith of the people that have 
 confided to him the grim issues, and, trusting him, 
 pursue their avocations, their ambitions, pleasures, 
 recreations. The Powers and Principalities know 
 it ; they know that their secrets must be all revealed 
 when their archives are opened to the Grand Inquest 
 of Mankind. But can he disregard the words of the 
 caustic and epigrammatic Dumaine, Ambassador of 
 the Repubhc to the Court of the Dual Monarchy? 
 That very day the courtly Cambon had privately 
 shown him Dumaine's last dispatch : ' For this 
 newspaper, appeasement and security can only 
 be achieved by a war to the knife against pan- 
 Serbianism, and it is in the name of humanity 
 that it demands the extermination of the accursed 
 Serbian race.' 
 
 " Barely a lingering doubt remains in the inner 
 sanctuary of his mind : the wolves are gathering 
 even before the snow falls. Behind the editors of 
 these semi-official journals stands the thin, strained 
 figure of Count Berchtold ; behind that dyspeptic 
 diplomatist stand the German War Lord, his impetu- 
 ous heir-apparent, the German Chancellor, and the 
 war-machine, waiting impatiently for the button to 
 be touched. Not without reason had Cambon con- 
 cluded his interview with the grave words, ' C'est la 
 guerre,' rising and moving away silently, with mincing
 
 THE SERVICE OF THE STATE 63 
 
 gait, over the thick carpet. Cambon must know. 
 His brother Jules is French Ambassador at BerHn. 
 The issue is to be Teuton against Slav. What 
 matters it ? One issue is as good as another. The 
 wolves are hungry. They must taste blood. 
 
 " Sir Edward Grey leans back, hands in pocket, 
 looking up at the glass roof through which comes 
 the cunningly softened light. The Chancellor of the 
 Exchequer, with slight limp, slides past, sits down 
 near him, and is soon in animated conversation with 
 the Chief Whip. He discusses every point, laughs, 
 jokes, makes suggestions and calculations. ' Perky, 
 plucky, tricky,' some one remarks of him on a back 
 bench, half in admiration, half in contempt. The 
 Prime Minister lumbers to his seat, wisps of silver 
 white hair trailing over his collar. He carries with 
 him an air of solidity, almost of serenity. The 
 Foreign Secretary is dimly conscious that this must 
 be a special night, probably Ireland. He is suddenly 
 recalled from his reverie. Across the table stands 
 the heavy-]' owled Carson, reckless and overbearing, 
 muttering and uttering scarcely veiled rebellion. 
 His words hurtle round the House. Jibes and 
 insults and challenging laughter are shot back at 
 him, staccato, like the rattle of rifles, from the 
 raucous throats of the Liberals and Nationalists. 
 The Leader of the Opposition, acid, angular, old- 
 maidish, is visibly embarrassed. His party, proudly 
 declaring its fidelity to the flag, sits silent, ner- 
 vous and apprehensive. Civil war ! The Foreign 
 Secretary's lips curl contemptuously. The fools ! 
 This is the passion of a game not of life and death. 
 Full soon they will hear the guns ; their nearest
 
 64 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 and dearest will be called. But it is not to Carson 
 that Grey looks at this perilous time. Below the 
 gangway, massive, sphinx-like, sits Redmond. The 
 word will be with him. With Redmond, and not 
 with those pale simulacra on the Labour benches, 
 who, pretending to come from the Mountain, graze 
 contentedly in the paddock. 
 
 " Dryasdust, nosing through the archives of the 
 Quai d'Orsay, has hit upon some contemporary 
 documents which we may declare to be significant 
 of much. One of these documents is signed by 
 Faramond, Naval Attache at the French Embassy 
 in Berlin. Our Faramond observes with clear eyes. 
 From the calm waters of his diplomatic lagoon he 
 looks out into the industrial jungle of the Fatherland 
 and sees portents therein, to which he earnestly 
 invites the attention of his official superiors. Let 
 Faramond speak : ' The German soldier is no longer 
 what he was forty years ago — a simple rehgious 
 man, ready to die at the order from his King — and 
 William II cannot afford to allow a retreat to enter 
 into his calculations. Taking into account the four 
 million Socialist votes polled at the last election, 
 and remembering that the franchise is only given 
 at the age of twenty-five, one may be justified in 
 thinking that the active army, composed of young 
 people between the ages of twenty and twenty-five, 
 must have in its ranks a considerable number of 
 Socialists.' Faramond, worthy man, strikes a new 
 note in diplomatic correspondence. Another docu- 
 ment is a memorandum for one Stephen Pichon, 
 whom we have forgotten if we ever remembered, 
 Minister for Foreign Affairs, on July 30, 1913 :
 
 THE SERVICE OF THE STATE 65 
 
 ' Others consider war as necessary for economic 
 reasons found in over-population and over-production, 
 the need of markets and of outlets, or for social 
 reasons such as that diversion abroad alone can 
 prevent or delay the rising to power of the Demo- 
 cratic and Socialist masses.' And there is much 
 more to hke effect, ending thus : ' Moreover, doctrin- 
 aire manufacturers declare that the difficulties they 
 have Avith their workers originated in France, the 
 revolutionary home of ideas of emancipation — 
 without France industry would be quiet. Finally, 
 the gun and armour-plate manufacturers, the great 
 merchants who clamour for greater markets, and 
 the bankers who speculate on the golden age and 
 the indemnity of war think that war would be 
 good business.' Mammon, whom we have met be- 
 fore, at divers times and places, is Hke to exert a 
 determining voice at this desperate conjunction. 
 
 " We may be certain that our Foreign Secretary 
 is well informed of the sentiments of the market- 
 place when the dice-box rattles in the hand of Von 
 Jagow. The first throw is at St Petersburg, almost 
 immediately to be re-christened Petrograd. The 
 Austrian Ambassador hints that his Government 
 may search on Serbian territory for the instigators 
 of Serajevo. ' Do not enter upon that path,' re- 
 phes Sazonof. On July 23 Austria presents her 
 ultimatum to Serbia. It must be swallowed, 
 body and bones, in forty-eight hours. On July 24 
 Sir Edward Grey is officially informed. He remarks 
 to the Austrian Ambassador that never had a docu- 
 ment of so formidable a character been addressed 
 from one Government to another. Not dismayed, he 
 
 E
 
 66 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 sets the Chancelleries to work to find a formula to 
 appease Austria. The next week we witness pro- 
 cessions of ambassadors at the Ballplatz and the 
 Wilhelmstrasse. In vain ! For there is no con- 
 ceivable formula under heaven to which Germany 
 will consent. Her army watches with ill-disguised 
 dismay the passage of precious days while these men 
 talk. End it ! Let the sword decide. Austria 
 mobilizes, Russia mobilizes, but that busybody of 
 a British Minister still seeks the magic formula, 
 searching for it as for the Holy Grail. Donnerwetter ! 
 We know why ! He fears us. Let us march ! 
 
 " But our Foreign Secretary is not afraid. Nor 
 does the British nation tremble. Fear ! We have 
 dealt before with wolves and our dominion runs to 
 the ends of the world. Look more closely at home, 
 O fire-eating Junkerdom ! For if Grey but speak 
 the word ; if he will but whisper in the ear of the 
 gentle Lichnowsky that we will support our good 
 friend France ; that, if we take up our arms, we will 
 never lay them down until Germany and its Junkers 
 lie prostrate, be it in one year or ten — then, most 
 vahant Kaiser, we know of a certainty that thy 
 sword may rattle but will not leave its scabbard. 
 But Grey is silent. ' Go your courses, noble sirs, 
 without regard to us. When we strike, we strike. 
 But we do not threaten.' 
 
 " At this vital moment in the negotiations we may, 
 with all our hearts, pity the predicament of the 
 British Foreign Secretary. He can decide, aye or 
 nay, if war shall devastate Europe. The Marquess 
 di San Giuliano, Italy's Foreign Minister, says to 
 Monsieur Barrere, the French Ambassador, that ' at
 
 THE SERVICE OF THE STATE 67 
 
 this moment Germany takes great account of her 
 relations with London, and that, if there is one 
 Power who can persuade BerHn to take pacific 
 action, it is England.' Sazonof cables the same 
 opinion to Benckendorff. Viviani implores Grey 
 to pronounce the fateful decision. Grey remains 
 silent. He cannot speak, if he would, for he must 
 gain the consent of the Cabinet. Nor can the 
 Cabinet speak until Parliament has been duly 
 notified and votes the supplies. But we must not 
 suppose that our Foreign Secretary, were he tongue- 
 free and able to say what is in his mind, would even 
 then have warned Germany that the weight of the 
 British Empire would be thrown in the scales against 
 her. Germany would have withdrawn and Europe 
 would have heard nothing but of Britain's bullying 
 diplomacy. Our Grey is not minded to draw down 
 upon us Germany's rage and spleen without due 
 compensation. No ; if diplomacy cannot speak 
 its mind frankly and without arriere pensee because 
 the War Lord for ever threatens, then let civilization 
 abdicate and make way for the devil with his legions 
 of darkness. Nor does our Foreign Secretary fail 
 to make some calculations. He knows the power 
 and recuperative faculties of France. Here on his 
 desk are the figures of the French army and navy, 
 no doubt more than a little coloured with Latin 
 optimism. Here, too, are the Russian totals, pass- 
 ing belief. Never mind ; if but the half be true we 
 stand on sure ground. The words of the Viennese 
 editor re-echo in his brain : ' If not now then in two 
 or three years.' Let us then face the fight never 
 doubting. We struggle to the end to dissolve the
 
 68 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 issues in pure reason. Mars, in unholy union with 
 Mammon, was too strong. 
 
 " Ye Powers and TemporaUties, Ye Immensities, 
 Ye Clouds and Constellations, and Thou, O Mother 
 Earth, eternally revolving in the sun's gracious light, 
 grant, we pray you, that this monstrous iniquity be 
 not laid at our door. This arbitrament by blood, 
 this worship of Thor, this dethronement of Reason, 
 comes uninvited upon us ; we sought it not, for we 
 were at our daily tasks ; our minds were far from it. 
 But bear witness, also, we pray, that we go forward 
 to our fate without fear and without flinching. We 
 throw down the torch ; we seize the sword ; un- 
 dismayed, we march into the future." 
 
 I fear, perhaps, that Carlyle may have been mis- 
 informed in some respects ! 
 
 Your affectionate uncle, 
 
 Anthony Farley.
 
 VII : THE EXPERT 
 
 My dear George, 
 
 You remind me that I advocated a guild for 
 the teachers, but that when it comes to doctoring 
 I solemnly warn you not to let the expert become 
 our master. Then you clinch your argument : "If 
 a guild be the right form of organization for the 
 teachers, then it is equally applicable to medicine. 
 But if we give the doctors complete control, what can 
 prevent the experts from being our masters ? " 
 
 A good debating point for the Union ! I do not 
 whisper my toiiche ; I shout it. In this instance, 
 however, you have not touched me. You have 
 overlooked two definitions : of control and of 
 master. 
 
 Now what is mastery ? Ruskin called Carlyle 
 his ' master ' ; Plato they called ' master ' ; Christ 
 also. Clearly I did not mean that mystic emanation 
 from spiritual integrity. These ' masters ' did not 
 achieve their rank by legislative recognition, like 
 the French Academy or our own Order of Merit. 
 Good God ! The idea ! They compelled by their 
 unseen powers. " And I, if I be Hfted up, will draw 
 all men unto me," said Christ. Observe that this 
 is not technical mastery, even though they were 
 supreme technicians. It involves a spiritual quality 
 very rare and precious. What a far cry is this from 
 the growing dominance of the medicine-men ! I 
 have more than once seen in their literature references 
 to the psychological relations that must be estabHshed 
 between doctor and patient. To that I do not 
 object ; it is probably more than half the cure. 
 69
 
 70 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 But their mastery must not extend beyond that 
 point. 
 
 A doctor comes to me to tell me that he has dis- 
 covered a culture or germ (or whatever he calls it) 
 that, if circulated through my blood, is a sure anti- 
 toxin against typhoid. " That is very interesting," 
 I reply. He goes on to say that he has another 
 prophylactic against malaria. " That, too, is indeed 
 interesting, because I spend half my time in a malarial 
 country." " I can also inoculate you against 
 diphtheria, meningitis, colds, coughs, kidney troubles, 
 tuberculosis." "Good!" I answer; "Science is 
 wonderful." " I will now proceed to inoculate you 
 against all these diseases," he says, pulling a great 
 variety of tubes and syringes and other appliances 
 out of his bag. " Thanks, no," I reply ; " it is very 
 kind of you, but I have had typhoid, and the other 
 complaints don't worry me. I am very old-fashioned, 
 and Uve on the principle that if I eat well, sleep well, 
 and scrupulously attend to the proper hygiene of my 
 body I sha'n't do so badly." " Sir," he thunders 
 back, " I see that you are a faddist, a fanatic. It 
 is men like you who thwart the march of science. 
 As you will not listen to reason, I will obtain Parlia- 
 mentary powers to compel you to be inoculated, 
 as many times, and against as many diseases, as I 
 choose. Science has no patience with faddists." 
 
 The odd thing is that the medicos really believe 
 it. Some time ago a prominent official in the 
 Colonial Medical Service sat talking with me before 
 a blazing fire at the Club. We both had colds. 
 I think mine was worse than his, but probably he 
 thought differently.
 
 THE EXPERT 71 
 
 " I'm going to the laboratory," he told me, " to 
 get a proper antitoxin. You'd better come too." 
 " No, thanks," I snuffled ; " I'm off home." Ten days 
 later I met him again. He was busily engaged with 
 a pocket-handkerchief that must originally have 
 been a bed-sheet. " How's your cold ? " he snuffled. 
 " Gone, ages ago," I chirped. " Had a Turkish 
 bath, slept warm, ate an enormous breakfast in bed 
 next morning, stayed in all day, read a couple of 
 books, kept out of draughts, quite fit the morning 
 after. Sore nose, vaseline put that right. And 
 you ? " " Oh, I'm going along all right. Swallowed 
 four million germs ; had the right feverish reaction 
 in forty-eight hours ; and now the cure is running 
 its normal course." 
 
 Now, I do not mind if the vast mass of our people 
 wiUingly submit to every kind of inoculation. If 
 the doctors can persuade them, who am I that 
 should object ? But the moment my own person 
 is compulsorily invaded, then I very emphatically 
 protest. There are limits ; and the limit, so far as 
 medicine is concerned, is the subjugation of my 
 body, by Act of ParUament, to any kind of medical 
 assault. I often wonder if I am peculiar in my 
 belief in the sanctity of my own person. I have 
 several times been under arrest. In my young 
 days, over a free-speech riot ; in Morocco, owing 
 to an insufficiency of baksheesh ; twice in Russia 
 — suspicion about my passport ; in Costa Rica — a 
 little difference with the Customs ; finally, in Guate- 
 mala, as a suspected revolutionist. I was never 
 under duress more than a few hours, yet the sense 
 of physical subjugation was intolerable. I would
 
 72 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 willingly have shot my captors. If you are not a 
 fool, you need not, when arrested, be personally 
 assaulted. You submit to force majeure and set 
 about your release. But a doctor claims the right, 
 by due process of law, to strip you, make an incision 
 in your body, and inoculate you with disease. If you 
 agree to it, then you let the expert become your 
 master. I, for one, most emphatically repudiate 
 any such medical pretensions. 
 
 How, then, are we to control them ? Let us 
 grant that there is a strong medical guild. But 
 there wiU be other guilds, numerically and financially 
 stronger. Should the medical guild seek to impose 
 its methods without the free consent and co-operation 
 of the other guilds, I fancy the fat would be in the 
 fire. We can do without doctors longer than with- 
 out bakers and butchers. The average worker has 
 a real reverence for his body. I recently travelled 
 North. Opposite sat an artisan — a clean, intelligent 
 man. We got into conversation. He told me that 
 a son had been born to him. "A beauty, sir. I 
 examined him from top to toe — not a blemish on 
 him ! " " You'll have him vaccinated, I suppose ? " 
 " Me ! No fear ! Wouldn't have his skin disfigured 
 for a fortune." This man was typical ; I have met 
 hundreds like him. 
 
 On rereading what I have written, two things I 
 see : that owing to your question I have divagated 
 far from my purpose of discussing the Civil Service ; 
 and, secondly, that I appear to be biased against 
 the medical profession. Nothing could be further 
 from my real feelings. We do not judge the Roman 
 Church by its Inquisition ; nor must we judge
 
 THE EXPERT 73 
 
 Medicine by the follies of its Inoculationists. The 
 Inquisition called for men's souls, ahve or dead. 
 If the soul were yielded alive — just a touch of 
 torture — so much the better ; if the Inquisition 
 met with stout resistance, then it were better to end 
 the recalcitrant Hfe that it should not infect other 
 souls. So with the Inoculationists. They beUeve 
 that one ought wiUingly to submit to inoculation ; 
 that if the victim be recalcitrant better put him 
 in gaol, lest he infect others. As experts, they claim 
 to be masters. But the craze will pass. Medicine 
 is pecuharly liable to crazes. (There is a man at the 
 Club who swears he has had his appendix removed 
 six times.) Nevertheless, behind these transient 
 fashions, medicine tells a tale of glory ; it is adding 
 to it on the European battlefields. 
 
 Hang it ! I now perceive that I appear also to 
 have been libelling the expert. But I admire him. 
 If you go into the Civil Service, I hope it will be as 
 an expert. Subject to proper restrictions, the future 
 is to the expert. You must watch carefully the 
 drift and tendency of affairs. We have recently 
 been writing about guilds as though they were 
 accomplished facts. Why ? Because we know that 
 the time is rapidly approaching when the workers 
 in civihzed countries will organize themselves into 
 large groups, which will probably be known as guilds, 
 to the end that they may be partners in the products 
 of their labour. Take it from me : the wage-system 
 is tottering to its fall. When I think of the Chartist 
 movement (for which, by the way, your great- 
 grandfather spent nine months in gaol) and of the 
 succeeding labour movements, I am lost in wonder
 
 74 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 that they did not long since concentrate upon the 
 wage-system and destroy it. Just think of it ! For 
 a century or more the labourer has been deluded 
 into the belief that his labour is an inanimate com- 
 modity, entering into the cost of the finished product, 
 precisely as does cotton or coal. Believe me, the 
 delusion is now being fast dissipated. Very good. 
 These guilds are bound to enter into organic relations 
 with the State. As far as I can see, it will be a kind 
 of partnership. The State representatives on the 
 governing boards of these guilds must be technically 
 the equals of the guildsmen. 
 
 Assume that, in ten or fifteen years from now, 
 the Engineers and Metal Workers form a guild. 
 They will come to the State for a charter. The 
 State will naturally impose suitable terms. It will 
 want engineers to act for it. Suppose that you are 
 a trained engineer. Mon Dieu ! What a chance ! 
 You will be an expert. But the guild, possessing 
 the labour monopoly, will know how to keep you in 
 your place. 
 
 The average bureaucrat's ignorance of industrial 
 technique is at bottom the reason why he is held in 
 contempt by the industrial world. And more and 
 more, as the years pass, does this become apparent. 
 In the old days of laissez-faire it did not matter, 
 because administration was practically remote from 
 trade and the mechanical processes. In these later 
 days, when the State intervenes throughout the 
 whole industrial area, when the bureaucrat neces- 
 sarily comes into touch with master and man, he 
 is very quickly found out. If he is really the 
 master of his business, he is treated with more than
 
 THE EXPERT 75 
 
 consideration, with actual deference. But, except 
 in certain departments, technical mastery is not 
 found in the bureaucracy. The result is that the 
 employers impose their will upon the Government 
 to an extent little realized by outsiders. It is 
 curious, too, that very often these administrative 
 interferences are in the interests of the workers. 
 Yet they prefer the oppression of the masters, who 
 know their business, to the protection of the bureau- 
 crats, who are ignorant of it. In certain departments 
 it is otherwise. The medical officer of a borough or 
 district exercises great power and influence, but even 
 he is apt to be bulldozed into silence by slum land- 
 lords. The Post Office is remarkably efficient, but 
 it is a self-contained body, vested with tremendous 
 powers. I should not be surprised to see the guild 
 spirit spread rapidly in the Post Office. So far as 
 efficiency and mastery are concerned, I think the 
 engineers have it in the highest degree. Out in 
 the Colony, a few months ago, I watched a gang of 
 coloured workmen erecting a wireless tower under 
 the direction of an engineer in the Public Works 
 Department. The man, in dirty tunic and with 
 begrimed hands, knew his work and the men knew 
 that he knew it. They were hoisting up a steel 
 framework over two hundred feet. The crane and 
 the gang manipulating the ropes had to move in 
 unison. The engineer stood in the centre, guiding 
 and directing by the movements of his arms. He 
 knew every man by his Christian name. " Now 
 then. Bill, you blighter, get busy ! " " Tom, you blind 
 fool, move out of there ! " " Loose her 1 loose her ! 
 Arturo, you God-damned son of a bitch ! " he
 
 76 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 shrieks, as the rope is held too taut. And so the 
 great framework gradually rises and moves to its 
 appointed place. The riveters mount the scaffold 
 and begin to hammer. The men below rest. "Come 
 along, you blithering bastards, and let's empty a 
 bottle of whisky." Rows of ivory teeth sparkle 
 in the bright sun. There is no second invitation. 
 The whisky bottle is passed round, yielding quiet 
 content. "The boss he swear like a Yankee," 
 says one of them, " but he know what's what." An 
 hour later, bathed and dressed in immaculate white, 
 he steps up on the verandah of the Polo Club. He 
 drops into a wicker-chair next to a female bundle 
 of well-laundered flounces. Lazily he crosses one 
 leg over the other, disclosing a silk sock tightly 
 drawn up by a suspender. He addresses his neigh- 
 bour in the gently modulated tones of a Castilian 
 don. 
 
 If you go into the Civil Service, my boy, enter it as 
 an expert and not as an anasmic quill-driver. But 
 if you try to steal power instead of giving humble 
 service, by heck, old man though I am, I'll shoulder 
 a rifle ! 
 
 Your affectionate uncle, 
 
 Anthony Farley.
 
 VIII : THE COLONIAL SERVICE 
 
 My dear George, 
 
 It will not have escaped your philological 
 eye that a man goes into the Civil Service, but not 
 into the service of business. No ; he says he is 
 going into business. But a domestic goes into 
 ' service ' ; and occasionally one hears of some 
 servile under-strapper who says he is ' in the 
 service ' of Mr Smith. In like manner, an officer 
 goes ' into the Service ' ; so also does a private 
 or a bluejacket. These distinctions are suggestive. 
 Service denotes discipline and obedience. DiscipHne 
 clearly indicates a hierarchy or a command ; 
 obedience indicates willingness to obey. Thus, 
 when an officer says he is ' in the Service,' he really 
 means that he belongs to the Service only in the 
 sense that he belongs to the command. It is true 
 he may be a mere cogwheel in the command, bound 
 to obey his superior officer. But he knows that he 
 is serving an apprenticeship and hopes some day 
 himself to be in actual command. A private or 
 bluejacket has no such expectation ; obedience is 
 his lot to the end. It is not substantially different 
 in the Civil Service, where discipline is maintained 
 by the same principle of classification. On the 
 other hand, when a man ' goes into business,' by 
 implication he rejects the discipline of service and 
 is quite frankly ' on his own.' He is bent on 
 piracy. 
 
 If you think of it you will realize how important 
 are discipline and classification in the Government 
 service, particularly from the possessing classes' 
 
 77
 
 78 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 point of view. For it is to a closely integrated and 
 homogeneous Governmental organization that we 
 must look if we are to preserve intact the existing 
 social and economic life of the nation. Our social 
 structure may be fundamentally wrong or it may 
 have grown rotten by age and wrong usage. I am 
 too old to be under any illusions. I know it to be 
 morally rotten and I believe it to be fundamentally 
 wrong. What I think hardly matters. I shall 
 soon " go hence and find it is not so " (I hope you 
 read Matthew Arnold) ; but you and your genera- 
 tion will soon be facing reconstruction, whether 
 you like it or fear it or hate it. It matters enor- 
 mously that you should see through the conventions 
 and grip firmly the realities. I often wonder whether 
 Oxford and Cambridge clear or obscure our social 
 vision. It is certainly odd, and even significant, 
 that whereas the university students of Eastern 
 Europe are overwhelmingly revolutionary, the stu- 
 dents in the universities of Western Europe and 
 America (that is to say, the industrialized countries) 
 are overwhelmingly conservative and conventional. 
 Only the other da}^ I was dining with a Harvard 
 graduate, and a D.Ph. to boot. He seriously argued 
 that John D. Rockefeller must be ipso facto a great 
 intellectual force. ''Intellectual?" I shouted. 
 " Yes," he drawled, " just intellectual." As he 
 was my guest I found it safer to discuss the vestigial 
 traces of Maya civilization in Central America. 
 But I mustn't divagate. It is certain that, given 
 a social organization, the Government service wiU 
 respond to the wishes of the dominant factors in 
 the body pohtic. Hence the necessity for classifica-
 
 THE COLONIAL SERVICE 79 
 
 tion. The ruling factors in the service must be the 
 bone and flesh of the ruhng factors outside. And 
 the ruhng factors inside base themselves upon the 
 monopoly of the first-class clerkships. I dare say 
 you know that the abyss between the first and 
 second class clerkships is as deep and impassable 
 as the abyss between the commissioned and non- 
 commissioned ranks in the Army and Navy. I see 
 that the Socialist journals, which I assiduously read, 
 are rejoicing that, under the pressure of the war, 
 promotions from the ranks are now numerous. 
 They are very stupid. They fail to understand that 
 a promoted sergeant of pleb origin would be always 
 on his good behaviour, just hke a Labour man in 
 Parhament. It is to me astounding that the ordinary 
 Socialist and Labour papers are so utterly ignorant 
 of the psychology of the class whose claims they 
 advocate. But I suspect that the great majority 
 of the promoted soldiers belong to the same class 
 as the officers themselves. Anyhow, you may 
 bank on it, the Army hierarchy is not so foolish 
 as to introduce social dynamite into the mess. 
 No, indeed ! They are even careful to keep it out of 
 the canteen. To any threatened invasion by a real 
 democracy of the Army, Navy, or Civil Service our 
 mandarins would all show their teeth and shout : 
 " Hands off ! " Between ourselves, I should find 
 it very amusing to see some of their teeth 
 drawn ! 
 
 There is, then, an implied contract that on enter- 
 ing the Service you must do your share to preserve 
 the social order. No nonsense about that ! You 
 would not be told in plain terms that rent, interest.
 
 8o LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 and profits are sacred. The governors of Great 
 Britain are more subtle. You would be told that 
 this is a democratic country and that, in consequence, 
 you must show courtes}^ and consideration to all, 
 to the lowest as to the highest, to rich and to poor. 
 Courtesy and even sympath}^ not only cost nothing, 
 but bring a rich reward in the contentment and 
 docility of the working and lower middle classes. 
 When a deputation of working men has been to you, 
 let them report to their mates that they were treated 
 like " bloomin' dooks." If no ' interests ' clash 
 you must yield gracefully, assuring them that no act 
 of your official life has given you greater pleasure. 
 If rent or interest is affected your task is not so 
 easy. There are, however, various ways to ' fob 
 'em of^.' You can generally raise the question of 
 expense. If hard put to it you can damn the 
 Treasury, which is always willing to play Jorkins 
 to your Spenlow. Or you can play for time. " The 
 subject is most interesting, gentlemen, but several 
 novel points have been raised, demanding our most 
 careful and anxious consideration. I know you 
 would not expect this department to act precipitately. 
 In your own interests it would be most unwise to 
 do so," etc., etc. If this cock won't fight, then you 
 can ask the deputation if they have the necessary 
 capital to carry on the business, because you fear 
 — in fact, you know — that the employers would not 
 continue if such onerous responsibilities are thrown 
 upon them. I know no easier task than to fool a 
 working-class deputation. You must sedulously 
 act the part of umpire, but you must never give 
 your own side out. If you do, good-bye to promotion.
 
 THE COLONIAL SERVICE 8i 
 
 Suavity, you perceive, is the first essential to 
 success in the Civil Service. The second is like unto 
 it. Talleyrand summed it up in his historic phrase : 
 Pas trop de zele. You do not always know what 
 your superiors are really aiming at ; and, if you do, 
 it is unwise to betray your knowledge. Every great 
 official likes to think that he is a second Machiavelli, 
 Nothing annoys him so much as to see that you 
 have spotted his game. There is no room in a 
 Government office for Vorticism. Out of too much 
 energy you may draw the wrong pattern or brew 
 the wrong emotion. On the other hand, do not ape 
 humility too much. Always nurse a grievance and, 
 on due occasion, trot it out. A very clever civil 
 servant once told me that he was offered a small 
 promotion in lieu of a grievance. He declined it. 
 " No," said he ; " my grievance is worth more than 
 that." So, to quiet him, they finally made him an 
 ' Assistant-Comptroller ' or something of the sort. 
 He not only got an improved status, an increased 
 salary, but also — oh, joy ! — two carpets, a hearth- 
 rug, and a fire-screen. One of these days they will 
 knight him. 
 
 Do not believe, however, that I take an altogether 
 cynical view of the Civil Service, Welhngton, with 
 Irish terseness, remarked that the King's Govern- 
 ment must be carried on, and it is the Civil Service 
 that carries it on. Its political chiefs pass, some too 
 quickly, most too slowly ; the Service works on — 
 and sometimes sleeps. I freely admit that the 
 vast majority of its members work conscientiously. 
 They have mostly joined because they want, in 
 the days of their youth, that otium cum dignitate
 
 82 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 which ought only to come with extreme old age. 
 That, I suppose, explains why so many of them are 
 quite old and formal at thirty-five instead of at 
 seventy. But they have brains, and our Govern- 
 ment offices are well informed and far-seeing. Our 
 Diplomatic Service is really the best in the world. 
 It combines subtlety with strength, and it always 
 has something to bring to market. The Colonial 
 Office, too, is remarkably efficient in many ways. It 
 has always restrained excesses in the employment 
 of natives. Planters and prospectors have often 
 gnashed their teeth when forbidden to "wallop 
 their niggers " or starve them. Now, in our days 
 of trial, the result is shown in comparative quiet 
 throughout our Dominions. The result justifies the 
 Colonial Office ; I am not so sure that it justifies the 
 negroes and other subject-races. Thank goodness, 
 it is their affair and not mine. I wonder whether 
 the Kaiser does not bitterly regret that his friendship 
 with God hardly suffices to induce the Almighty to 
 transform negroes into Irishmen. It is the Colonial 
 Office which trains our Proconsuls and Satraps, 
 who subsequently govern vast territories and varie- 
 gated races with skill and address, and occasionally 
 with genius. 
 
 A Colonial Governor has his thrills. I wonder 
 what all our Colonial Governors felt when, on the 
 outbreak of war, each went to his safe and took out 
 a sealed envelope marked : " To be opened only in the 
 event of war." The instructions contained in this 
 envelope (which had been handed down by pre- 
 decessor to successor I know not how many times) 
 will probably remain a secret. The Governor sits
 
 THE COLONIAL SERVICE 83 
 
 alone, reads the portentous documents, finds himself 
 suddenly changed into an autocrat, with sweeping 
 powers to imprison, deport, or even shoot or hang, 
 with a full indemnity promised by his Sovereign 
 Lord and King. Do you know, I think I should Hke 
 to be a Colonial Governor. But to get there means 
 a long series of gradations and no end of puzzling 
 problems — unpleasant tasks, too. I once drifted 
 into the office of a very high official. He had just 
 been in to discuss with the Governor a number 
 of questions. Then they fell to discussing Greek. 
 My man quoted from Aristophanes. The Governor 
 didn't recognize it and asked that it be written down. 
 So said, so done. " Your accents are wrong," said 
 the Governor. " Very likely. I'm weak on accents, 
 but I think I'm right." " Let's look it up," said 
 the Governor. So they verified the quotation. I 
 forget who was in the right of it ; I tell you of the 
 incident to illustrate that my official was highly 
 cultured. He took a first in Mods, as a matter of 
 fact. In the course of his career, he had been 
 stationed in China. In his district they requisitioned 
 ten thousand Chinamen for South Africa. They 
 had to be medically examined, and, no doctor being 
 available, this task was added to his other duties. 
 A hateful job. " They ought to have given you 
 a seat in the Lords and ten thousand a year," I 
 remarked. " I kept my own work up to the mark 
 all the time," he replied grimly. 
 
 Puzzling problems, too ! Up in Corozal, in my 
 colony, there were repeated complaints of a water 
 shortage. We drink rain-water out there. The 
 water is collected and run into great tanks during
 
 84 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 the rainy season. Toward the end of the dry 
 season these tanks ran dry. " Give us more tanks," 
 cried the natives. The Government procrastinated. 
 At this time it was discovered that there were two 
 or three cases of leprosy in the colony. So an 
 ordinance was passed to build a small leper hospital 
 and segregate these cases. It chanced that one of 
 them was Peter Hamilton, of Corozal. He was a 
 harmless old nigger. He would sit outside his little 
 shack, where he lived alone, and chant a queer negro 
 melody : 
 
 My Mammy say dat I am her love, 
 
 De sun goes down in de west ; 
 My Mammy say, " Good-night, my love," 
 
 De sun goes down in de west. 
 
 Down among de sugar canes, I see Mirandy, 
 
 De sun goes down in de west ; 
 I call out, " Mirandy, be my love," 
 
 De sun goes down in de west. 
 
 Mirandy, she bring to me a little piccaninny, 
 
 De sun goes down in de west ; 
 An alligator cotched him in de great Mississippi, 
 
 When de sun went down in de west. 
 
 In this way did Peter tell us all about his life, its 
 loves, its hardships, its toil and care. I used to 
 bring him cigarettes and sometimes a nip of rum. 
 " Tank you, Mistah, I will sing you ma little ditty." 
 Then somebody told him that, very soon, he must 
 go to the new leper asylum. Peter said he would 
 rather stay where he was. They told him that there 
 was a new law. That night, when the sun had gone 
 down in the west, Peter drowned himself in the one 
 remaining tank of drinking-water.
 
 THE COLONIAL SERVICE 85 
 
 Next day the D.C. and the M.O. met in anxious 
 conclave. What was to be done ? The M.O. said 
 that the water was unaffected and not harmful to 
 health. The D.C. couldn't stomach the thought of 
 letting the people drink any more from the tank. 
 So they telegraphed to the Governor for instructions. 
 More consultations. Finally, they ran the water off 
 and sent up a schooner laden with water-barrels. 
 
 Yes, on the whole, if I were a young man going 
 into the Civil Service, I should choose the Colonial 
 Office. My only advice to you is to go into some- 
 thing that involves a minimum of desk work. Do 
 things ; don't only write about them. I should 
 hate to see you with a silk hat, an umbrella, and 
 a black-leather portfoHo, travelling up and down a 
 suburban Hne, discussing coins, china, and flowers 
 with your own little coterie. It would not be long 
 before a smudge on your well-polished boots would 
 give you acute discomfort. 
 
 Your affectionate uncle, 
 
 Anthony Farley.
 
 IX: COMMERCE 
 
 My dear George, 
 
 I gather that you are now minded to reject 
 all the professions and the Civil Service. Remains 
 that cruel and indeterminate world of activities 
 known as business. I suppose it means that you 
 ' busy ' yourself .about something not otherwise 
 defined. If you are a banker or a manufacturer, 
 you are in business ; if you are a commission agent, 
 you are in business ; if you are a commercial traveller, 
 you are in business. If you are a farmer or a planter, 
 somehow, and for a reason not known to me, you 
 are not in business. I was amused when, on a boat 
 coming up the coast of Central America, I asked a 
 friend of mine who owns a very small plantation, 
 who a very prosperous and pompous-looking fellow- 
 traveller was. " Some damned drummer," came the 
 instant reply. My friend suffered from a perpetual 
 overdraft at the bank ; the ' damned drummer ' 
 turned out to be quite rich. No planter in the world, 
 large or small, would admit that this successful 
 travelhng vendor could be recognized as in the same 
 social scale. I do not defend it ; but it is probably 
 more due to a rooted instinct than to snobbery. 
 
 After all, the man who tills the soil and feeds us 
 must know his social worth. Add the fact that, from 
 time immemorial, the farmer has been preyed upon 
 by the trader, and we may get at the psychology 
 of the farmers' universal aversion to traders. A 
 farmer thinks in seasons ; a trader in minutes. The 
 one mental process involves a habit of patience 
 and slowness ; the other impatience and quickness. 
 
 86
 
 COMMERCE d>y 
 
 Perhaps, then, we may recognize that fear is inter- 
 mingled with aversion. If you have deaHngs with a 
 man who is mentally more alert than yourself you 
 are wise to fear him. The mental abyss between 
 the two types by no means ends here. Listen to 
 the conversation of farming folk ; it is frank and 
 free from arrieres pensees. Listen to traders : they 
 speak as though beset with reservations and trickeries. 
 The simpHcity of the farmer is at once his strength 
 and his weakness. On really essential issues he will 
 not budge without great deliberation ; on matters 
 of less importance he is perpetually the victim of 
 the trader's wiles. I sometimes think that traders 
 would do well to aim at greater simplicity and direct- 
 ness. In a business ' deal ' between a Quaker and a 
 Jew, I would back the Quaker. Taught from youth 
 to concern himself only with things of value and 
 to be as truthful in the counting-house as in the 
 parlour, he would go straight to the point, simply 
 yet decidedly. The child of the money-changers, 
 imaginative and alert, would ultimately come to the 
 Quaker's terms or reject them. 
 
 Greater than he who takes a city is he who makes a 
 fair bargain. A fair bargain is when both parties to 
 the contract are completely satisfied. How far has 
 modern commerce carried us from that ideal ! The 
 fall from that ideal is the measure of our fall from 
 grace : it is the ' mark of the beast ' upon our 
 commercial and industrial life. In commerce, we 
 positively admire a man who ' gets the best of ' or 
 ' does ' another man in a bargain. We have sunk 
 so far into the immorality of false bargaining that 
 the man who is worsted in a deal actually envies
 
 88 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 the winner. " Very clever," he says to himself. 
 "I'll try the trick on somebody else." I wonder 
 whether they have taught you at Cambridge that 
 the habit of false bargaining is rotting and corrupt- 
 ing our national fibre. I fear they haven't. The 
 authorities of St Paul's Cathedral took Hooley's gold 
 vessels. They were not deterred by the cynic's 
 suggestion that, at the appropriate moment, they 
 should sing, " Hooley, Hooley, Hooley." A friend 
 of mine, who has prospered amazingly, who also 
 knows the true inwardness of business, told me that 
 he had only one defence. " I cannot defend poker 
 on ethical grounds ; yet I play it. We sit at the 
 table and each of us knows that, except as a game, 
 it would be intolerably wrong. If I went into 
 business as a duty to be seriously and conscientiously 
 performed to the community, my gorge would rise 
 at the hypocrisy of it. No, my dear Tony, it won't 
 bear thinking of in the way of duty. My only 
 defence is that I play it as a game, precisely as I play 
 poker or auction. And I get more fun out of business 
 than out of cards or golf." He was once concerned 
 in a lock-out with his associated employers. He 
 secretly rationed the families of his own employees 
 and chuckled delightedly when the men won. " I 
 was really the saviour of my own side," he after- 
 ward said to me, with a laugh. " Our fellows are 
 fools not to see that high wages pay best all 
 round." But is this a real defence ? Of course not. 
 Apart from the obvious fact that what is fun to 
 Harold Martin is misery to the wage-earners, no 
 man should turn the lives of men and women into 
 counters in a game. It is dreadful even to think of.
 
 COMMERCE 89 
 
 Observe that two strains of thought run through 
 the argument. The first, that Hfe is an infinitely 
 precious thing ; the second, that false bargaining 
 degrades life. 
 
 The most urgent danger of the war is that we may 
 subsequently appraise life too cheaply. I can only 
 hope that, regarding our cause as just, we may 
 convince ourselves that the lives spent in its prose- 
 cution were sanctified and ennobled. I wonder ! 
 Be that as it may, I dogmatically assert that life is 
 the most precious thing known to us. A live dog 
 is better than a dead lion ; with life pulsating 
 through us, are we not a little lower than the angels 
 and crowned with glory and honour ? But what 
 happens in our body politic ? We reduce the lives 
 of the overwhelming majority of the population to 
 a mere commodity ; then we buy it at one-third of 
 its actual value. You say it is a bargain between 
 capital and labour. So it is ; but it is a diabolically 
 unfair bargain, based upon a hideous misconception 
 of the nature and possibilities of human life. For 
 when a man sells his health and strength (necessarily 
 upon compulsion, for his alternative is starvation), 
 he sells something which does not truly enrich the 
 buyer and leaves him poor indeed. In many ways 
 we have travelled beyond Ruskin, but his distinction, 
 afterwards emphasized by William Morris, between 
 wealth and illth remains valid. 
 
 I am forced, then, to the conclusion that our 
 system of industry and commerce is based upon a 
 tragic error. Labour is not only the victim of an 
 unfair bargain, but, conceived to be a mere com- 
 modity, it is the subject of an immoral bargain.
 
 90 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 It is the unforgivable sin — the bargain of prostitu- 
 tion. A woman sells her body — horrible ! A man 
 is cunningly reduced to selling the bones and sinews 
 of his body as a commodity. Is it not equally 
 horrible ? Point out to me any essential difference 
 between a woman of the pavement and a sandwich- 
 man of the pavement. I am usually regarded as an 
 easy-going man of the world. And so I am. But 
 sometimes, when I get down to the realities, I think 
 of Kirke White's passionate cry : "If this be their 
 justice, God of the red right arm, where is thy 
 thunderbolt ? " Some day a great statesman will 
 arrive (why should it not be you ?) who will not only 
 denounce the commodity theory as a devilish con- 
 trivance, but also sweep away the wage system 
 which is built upon it. 
 
 If you can endure with some complaisance the 
 existing social contract (as I have had to do), then 
 possibly, and even probably, you can succeed in 
 business. The business world is divided into two 
 main divisions — the industrial and the commer- 
 cial. There follow, of course, endless subdivisions. 
 Broadly stated, commerce buys and sells at a profit ; 
 industry makes and sells at a profit. For the life 
 of me, I cannot advise you to enter industry rather 
 than commerce. Suppose you go into commerce. 
 You become a middleman. You can range over 
 thousands of manufactured articles, buying at bottom 
 prices and selling as high as the market permits. 
 You can only hold your own by giving considerable 
 credit, and, in doing this, you risk bad debts. But 
 the position of all middlemen grows every year more 
 precarious because the manufacturers as a body are
 
 COMMERCE 91 
 
 every year coming closer to the consumers. But 
 the work is more congenial than factory produc- 
 tion. Your long suit, if you go into commerce, is 
 the variety of opportunity open to you to exploit 
 the world. As a ' national ' of the great British 
 Empire your opportunities are not easily numbered. 
 It is so much easier to exploit the labour of our 
 subject races than to exploit British labour, par- 
 ticularly when you are constantly confronted with 
 the law of diminishing returns. (It is not really a 
 law. Law is a word that is thoughtlessly employed 
 by our professional economists.) But before you 
 resort to Colonial or foreign exploitation, it is just 
 as well to remember that there are a number 
 of ' respectable ' commercial occupations — banking, 
 stockbroking, insurance, accountancy, and the like. 
 The banks, by sweating their clerks, pay big 
 dividends. An employee in the insurance world 
 does much better than a bank clerk. Then there is 
 finance, that strange and sinister function of modern 
 capitalism. If you ' get in with the fight set,' 
 you can make money in finance, providing your 
 conscience lets you sleep o' nights. If I had to start 
 in business again, I should like to be an average 
 adjuster. Do you know what that is ? I'm sorry 
 I can't tell you with any degree of accuracy. It has 
 something to do with adjusting mercantile insurance 
 claims, and its findings are quasi-judicial. I have 
 met average adjusters in various parts of the world. 
 They have always seemed to be oppressively pros- 
 perous. Architects and surveyors also seem to do 
 very well. I have met one or two ' quantity 
 surveyors ' who appeared to have a ' good thing.'
 
 92 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 I do not doubt, however, that in all these apparently 
 comfortable occupations you will find the proverbial 
 'nigger in the wood-pile.' Depend upon it, a 
 civilization based upon the dehumanization of 
 labour breeds uncanny ghosts in every occupation, 
 and, indeed, in every home. 
 
 I am hopeful that, in the war's cleansing process, 
 we shall see the eUmination of the army of financial 
 sharks and touts who infest and infect London 
 finance. Granting that finance is essential, under 
 present conditions, to the development of business, 
 it is self-evident that access to money should be 
 made easy and cheap. London flatters itself that 
 it is the financial centre of the world. So it was 
 before the war, and it may retain the leadership after 
 the war. But it must set its house in order. And 
 the first thing to be done is to squelch without mercy 
 the financial touts who claim to ' introduce ' business. 
 I can see them, even as I write, buzzing about the 
 purlieus of Throgmorton Street, their pockets stuffed 
 with commission notes, hurrying and scurrying 
 between the offices of financial brokers and com- 
 pany promoters, offering this and that ' proposition ' 
 (each worth at least a million — in the future), 
 prospectuses all ready-typed and occasionally printed; 
 if they cannot squeeze the vendor, then arranging 
 at the outset ' to be taken care of ' by the broker 
 or promoter. They must ' stand in ' somewhere. 
 Criminal lawyers, I am told, keep their ' runners ' 
 and their touts hanging round the prisons and police 
 courts to secure causes for their principals. In like 
 manner must some serious business-man run the 
 gauntlet of the financial touts. Often he is between
 
 COMMERCE 93 
 
 the devil and the deep sea. He wants money but 
 is ignorant of London ways. He is introduced to 
 •somebody in the City.' This somebody, who in 
 reahty is a nobody, says that he knows where the 
 money can be obtained. He is quite certain. If 
 our manufacturer or inventor will place himself 
 in his hands, it can be done quickly. Then they 
 get to business. A commission note is drafted, by 
 which instrument the vendor agrees to pay ten or 
 fifteen per cent, commission upon any capital the 
 ' somebody in the City ' may procure. The days 
 that follow are tragic. Our expectant vendor, 
 daily buoyed up by encouraging reports from our 
 ' somebody,' kicks his heels in some London hotel, 
 waiting, waiting. Meantime our ' somebody ' has 
 not been idle. He proceeds to interview various 
 ' financiers ' and agrees to divide his commission. 
 It is very seldom that any results are achieved. 
 Our vendor's time and money have been wasted. 
 No doubt a tout sometimes scores a success, parti- 
 cularly when there is a boom. When investors went 
 crazy over rubber a number of fortunes were made 
 by men who had previously been living on borrowed 
 half-crowns. A financial journalist once introduced a 
 thriving business to a company promoter who subse- 
 quently ' did time.' The deal was consummated 
 and the journalist obtained £25,000 as his share of the 
 plunder. Think of it ! For an hour or two's con- 
 versation, the community has to screw out annually 
 a thousand golden sovereigns in perpetuity. Waste ! 
 When I was a young man, before you were born, 
 I travelled through Canada. I there met an agri- 
 cultural machine maker who wanted capital. In a
 
 94 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 light moment I promised to do what I could for him. 
 He was a simple-minded man, inventive and skilful 
 in his trade and open as daylight. On my return 
 to London, I interviewed one or two men I knew. 
 My Canadian friend wanted ;£20,ooo. The sum 
 was voted too small by the Londoners. I did not 
 then understand that what they meant was that 
 there was no margin for plunder. I gave one or two 
 commission notes in fear and trembling, but resolutely 
 kept the negotiations in my own hands. Finally, 
 by devious ways, and after endless delays, I got into 
 the private office of a 'great financial man.' I 
 was told that London finance trembled at his word 
 and whispered in his presence. His private secretary 
 first interviewed me. Yes, he thought the great 
 man was really interested. He would see me in a 
 few minutes. But before going into the august 
 presence he would like to hint that as private secretary 
 he could make no kind of provision for himself before 
 the negotiations, yet he might say that a good deal 
 depended upon himself, and no doubt a suitable 
 acknowledgment would come later on, I gravely 
 replied that my friend would doubtless suitably 
 express his gratitude. Ushered into the sanctum, the 
 great man glanced over the papers. " Cable your 
 principal to come over by the next boat," he said. 
 So my confiding friend got to London in a fortnight. A 
 month later his company was floated for £250,000, and 
 my friend received ^^5000 in cash and 45,000 shares. 
 There's money in finance, my boy, if your con- 
 science will let you sleep o' nights. 
 
 Your affectionate uncle, 
 
 Anthony Farley.
 
 X: INDUSTRY 
 
 My dear George, 
 
 Have you noticed that the manufacturers 
 have arrogantly seized the word ' industry ' and 
 apphed it to their own use ? It is true that we still 
 occasionally speak of the agricultural industry — the 
 natural meaning of the word in this instance per- 
 sisting — but nowadays, if a man 'goes into industry,' 
 we take it to mean that he is concerned with factory 
 production. Hogarth's " industrious apprentice " 
 was, I think, a hnen mercer. But we should not 
 say that he was in the retail, or even the wholesale 
 ' industry,' no matter how ' industrious ' he might 
 be. No ; he was in the linen trade — a trader. I 
 suspect that the manufacturers stole the word, 
 believing that it was only in mill and factory that 
 men — and incidentally women and children — were 
 really industrious, in sharp contrast with agriculture, 
 which is apparently a lazy and pedestrian occupation. 
 Look at the Stock Exchange quotations. ' Govern- 
 ment Bonds,' ' Railways,' ' Industrials,' and ' Mis- 
 cellaneous.' You will find no agricultural under- 
 taking included in ' Industrials.' The political 
 economists naturally took their cue from their 
 masters. They wrote about the ' great industry.' 
 They were fools. They really meant industrial 
 elephantiasis. This disease is quite common in 
 Central America. 
 
 And yet, let us be thankful, the world's great 
 industry is still agriculture. Look at a map of the 
 globe. Everywhere, save in the midlands and the 
 north, in the Rhenish provinces, in the Eastern 
 
 95
 
 96 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 States, mankind is engaged in minding the flocks and 
 tilling the land. In France agriculture still reigns 
 supreme. It is from the peasantry that its gold 
 flows, gold that is now commingled with the blood 
 of its sons. Some years ago a section of the American 
 people tried to establish a ratio between gold and 
 silver. Little they recked that the real ratio is 
 between gold and blood — a ratio that in the war is 
 gradually increasing in favour of gold. And every- 
 where, save in England, do agriculture and science 
 co-operate. Only last week, on the Estate, we blew 
 up with dynamite thirty acres of caked land. It is 
 now almost as good as new. One catch-crop of 
 beans to give it more nitrogen and once again we 
 shall plant bananas. We dig in little sticks of 
 dynamite over a radius of one hundred yards ; we 
 link them up with electric wires ; the magnetos 
 are sparked and the job is done. Nothing lazy or 
 pedestrian about that ! 
 
 I never return to England without renewing my 
 conviction that the problem there is not only 
 economic, but psychological. The landowners of 
 England are as blindly obtuse, as foolishly proud, 
 as the Spanish Dons or the Hungarian Magyars. 
 They have created a tradition of dignified inertia. 
 They are too proud to till their own soil ; they lay 
 burdens upon those who would that are too heavy 
 to be borne. The landed gentry of England deserve, 
 every man-jack of them, to be shot out of hand. 
 These burdens are, of course, the economic side of 
 the problem ; but, psychologically considered, they 
 are the predisposing cause of this dreadful industrial 
 elephantiasis. Without ceremony, these soi-disant
 
 INDUSTRY 97 
 
 seigneurs have driven English brains off the soil and 
 into the factory towns, " You are too clever for 
 farming, my lad ; try your luck in some go-ahead 
 town." Is that an exaggeration ? I heard a 
 Suffolk farmer say it to a promising youth. And 
 he started the boy with a five-pound note. He felt 
 he had done a kindly act. As things are, perhaps 
 he had. But the tragic fact remains, whether you 
 ascribe it to economics or psychology, British brains 
 are concentrated in trade and industry when they 
 ought to be equally distributed over town and 
 country. I tremble for England's future unless the 
 balance is redressed. 
 
 Do not mistake me. I am not arguing " wheat 
 supply in time of war," or other flapdoodle of a 
 similar kind. No, no ! A nation that bases its 
 economy upon the assumption of perpetual war is 
 degenerate and in a fair way to savagery — polished 
 and highly efficient savagery, if you will, but essential 
 savagery. Reasonable preparation for war, yes ; 
 beyond that — look out ! Even I, man of peace that 
 I am, always, when on the Estate, have firearms 
 ready loaded. I never know the moment that some 
 Waika Indian, Carib or Spanish half-breed won't run 
 amok. Indeed, last year, I shot a man. Didn't I 
 tell you about it ? Then forgive another divagation. 
 
 At the far end of the Estate, where the river runs 
 from the north and suddenly bends round to the 
 east, there is a bluff upon which are two cottages 
 and a rough shack. In one of these Hved Tomaso 
 Lopez with his woman Marcella, socially known 
 as ' Chella.' Her surname is long since lost in 
 the mists of antiquity. Probably she herself has
 
 98 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 forgotten it in the long succession of men with whom 
 she has cohabited. She is of surpassing ugHness ; 
 she is fat and lazy and her tongue is the tongue of a 
 viper. But she exudes sex like a veritable Cleopatra, 
 and, at each hiring season, she has apparently found 
 no difficulty in securing a man. Certain it is that 
 no man has ever endured her for more than a year. 
 Tomaso was a half-breed, lean as a greyhound, a 
 small square head covered with closely cropped 
 brown hair, long sharp nose, throwing into bold 
 rehef a receding chin upon which grew a stubbly 
 beard. His moustache bristled hke an exhausted 
 toothbrush. In the other cottage Hved Alfonso 
 Burgos with his girl Violeta. Burgos was a dandy 
 after his kind : curly black hair, parted in the middle, 
 a little pointed moustache, eyes dark and amorous. 
 Violeta is young, slender and harmless. To Alfonso 
 she was submissive as a spaniel. In the shack roofed 
 with palm leaves hved, alone, Thomas Jackson, 
 a Jamaican negro, voluble, a mischief-maker. 
 
 At sunrise Tomaso would go into the banana 
 plantation to clean and clear the land, while on 
 Wednesdays and Thursdays he would, in company 
 with Alfonso, cut the bananas for the tramp steamer 
 that comes up about midnight on each Thursday. 
 By half-past eleven his task was generally done. 
 He would then return to the cottage ready for the 
 breakfast of pork and beans prepared by Chella. 
 Then he would take his gun in search of deer or 
 peccary, or paddle the dory in the river looking for 
 fish. Or, if the sun struck hard from a cloudless 
 sky, he would sit in the shade idly fingering his 
 guitar and occasionally twanging a hlting Spanish
 
 INDUSTRY 99 
 
 love-song. I can see him now, as I write, head 
 thrown back, his long nose in the air, keeping time 
 with his thickly padded feet, for he seldom wore 
 either boots or moccasins. And, curiously enough, 
 I most vividly remember his thin neck with an 
 Adam's apple that moved up and down like a 
 pressure gauge. 
 
 The morning of May Day breaks without a cloud. 
 In the sky can only be seen a merciless hard light 
 blue and a sun that seems to move by leaps out of 
 the horizon. It is already sweltering hot before 
 Chella rolls from under her fly-net. She sleeps in a 
 chemise and her stockings. She throws on an old 
 loose cotton dress, and looks out upon the river that 
 cheerfully ripples its way over sand and pebbles, 
 scintillating in the sun's rays — this river that, in the 
 rainy season, will suddenly rise thirty or forty feet 
 and angrily sweep everything before it, banks and 
 trees and human habitations, sometimes changing 
 its course for a mile or more in a few short hours. 
 Some embers gleam in the brazier which Tomaso 
 had lighted for his morning coffee. Chella kneels 
 down and blows them into flame and is soon sip- 
 ping her coffee and munching a johnny-cake. As 
 she throws her own and Tomaso's fly-nets up over 
 the strings she puffs and grunts. Dios ! What 
 heat ! She sits on a box beside the door, grunting 
 Hke an overfed sow. Every ten minutes or so she 
 steps into the cottage, fills a calabash with water, 
 and greedily drinks. The heat grows more intense. 
 Often and yet oftener can you hear a gurgHng in 
 Chella's throat. No good ! She fills the calabash, 
 holds it up to her neck, then pours the water down
 
 100 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 over her breasts. It is good ! She grunts with 
 satisfaction as the cool stream moves down over her 
 protuberant belly. But, look ! The sun (her only 
 timekeeper) is now high up in the sky. Midday 
 is near ; Tomaso will soon be back and hungry for 
 his breakfast. The thought has but found form in 
 Chella's slow-moving brain when Tomaso lopes his 
 way into view. He steps into the cottage, throws 
 his machete into a corner, drinks from the alluring 
 calabash, and is again standing before Chella. He 
 sees the dead embers in the brazier and promptly 
 senses the situation. With an angry bound he is 
 on the woman. He grabs her by her loose dress, 
 belabouring her with blows. " You lazy bitch ! 
 My breakfast ! I'll kill you ! " he hisses. Chella 
 struggles to release herself from the man's grip. 
 The dress tears asunder, remaining in Tomaso's 
 hand. Fat and unwieldy though she be, she rushes 
 into the bush, her only protection the chemise, the 
 stockings, and a pair of carpet slippers. Tomaso 
 glances contemptuously at her retreating figure. In 
 a moment he is busy with the brazier. 
 
 At night, after Tomaso has put out his Hght, 
 Chella knocks at Alfonso's door. Poor Chella ! 
 The flies and bush pests have done their worst ; 
 her body is covered with itching blotches. Who 
 can help being sorry for Chella, gross and sensual 
 though she be ? Certainly not Violeta, who bestirs 
 herself. She prepares food and rubs the woman's 
 skin with coco-nut oil. Chella groans, then swears, 
 then utters wild imprecations against Tomaso. 
 Then she betrays the source of her greatest anxiety. 
 Tomaso, beast that he is, has surely burnt or destroyed
 
 INDUSTRY loi 
 
 her silk petticoat that is so richly lace-embroidered. 
 If that be gone, then how will she fare at the next 
 hiring season ? For (Chella knows !) it is at petti- 
 coats that men look. . . . They soothe her to sleep, 
 and soon she snores so loudly that Violeta fears the 
 sharp ears of Tomaso. 
 
 The next day Tomaso goes hunting. He brings 
 back an armadillo and a givnut (of the pig species, 
 but striped like a zebra). Jackson goes fishing 
 and catches three toothsome machaka (a kind of 
 salmon-trout) . They call to Alfonso and Violeta : 
 " Come ! Here is good eating ! " They prepare 
 for a gargantuan meal. Violeta kindles a big fire, 
 Alfonso skins the armadillo, Jackson scales the 
 fish, Tomaso cuts up the givnut. Quick ! we will 
 make merry. Curses on ' the Chief,' who keeps 
 good liquor from us. Jackson winks knowingly at 
 Tomaso. The Chief is not so clever as he thinks. 
 He steps over to his shack and brings back a large 
 bottle of fermented aniseed, most potent and fiery. 
 They sit round on boxes, dispensing with forks — 
 jack-knives suffice. The bottle passes round and 
 soon tongues are loosed. Alfonso reproaches 
 Tomaso for his treatment of Chella. Tomaso says 
 that he will do what he likes with his own woman. 
 Alfonso differs. He says that one should treat a 
 woman well for a year at least. After that ! He 
 shrugs his shoulders and looks meaningly at Violeta, 
 who cowers under his glance. Jackson laughs. 
 He says that men are fools with women. The bottle 
 passes with speedier recurrence. The men soon 
 reach differing degrees of drunkenness. Alfonso, 
 leaning on Violeta, moves unsteadily to their cottage ;
 
 102 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 Jackson lurches over to his shack ; Tomaso lies 
 on the floor in sleep and stupor. 
 
 When Tomaso comes to his senses the moon is 
 already flooding the river gap with a pale silver light. 
 The trees are gently rustled by the land breeze, 
 which has been slightly chilled as it passes over the 
 Western mountains. He hears the birds pecking 
 on the trees ; a green parakeet flies to its mate — 
 he hears its wings flapping as they beat the air. 
 His forehead burns, so he sits at the door that it may 
 be cooled. He gradually calls to mind the events 
 of the past two days. He regrets the flight of 
 Chella. After all, she could cook and knew the knack 
 of spices and hot seasoning. Gradually he calls to 
 mind Alfonso's reproaches and Jackson's scornful 
 gibes. Who is Alfonso, with his pasty-faced chit, that 
 he should preach about conduct toward women ? 
 And Jackson, who is too surly or too miserly even 
 to keep a woman ? A sense of intolerable grievance 
 steals over him. He at length sees the bottle of 
 aniseed. He drains it ; once again his brain 
 revolves in a hot vapour. At this evil moment 
 Alfonso goes down to the river for his evening bath. 
 Drunk Tomaso seizes the axe, stealthily steps into 
 the shadow of a palm-tree, and waits. Alfonso, 
 clean and refreshed, soon reappears, and, on his way 
 to the cottage, comes close. The axe falls with a 
 sickening thud. Alfonso, his head split open, will 
 never more coo like a dove to Violeta. Tomaso 
 drags the dead body and hides it under the wood- 
 pile. 
 
 In a few short hours, from the eastern horizon, 
 shoot up shafts and spears and deHcate tendrils of
 
 INDUSTRY 103 
 
 golden light. They are the morning sun's avants- 
 couriers. Another day has begun ; but Tomaso's 
 vengeance remains insatiate. There is Jackson ; 
 he will make short work of Jackson ! 
 
 On this day, having breakfasted, I go down the 
 steps of the Estate House on my way to the office. 
 I hear a frightened shout, and, looking down the 
 coco-nut walk, I see Jackson running in frenzied 
 fear, Tomaso close behind, brandishing his machete. 
 No joke this ! I rush back for a weapon. (Out 
 here it is wise to keep your Mauser sighted at one 
 hundred yards ; for close range, a Colt's automatic.) 
 I seize the Colt, click the magazine into position, and 
 quickly return to the verandah stairs. They are 
 very near. I catch a glimpse of Jackson's bulging 
 eyes ; Tomaso's machete is raised and ready. I 
 sight him and fire. His machete falls to the ground. 
 Again the revolver spits ; this time Tomaso falls, 
 pinked in the leg. In a trice I am kneeling over 
 the wounded man. His lips move, but I can only 
 hear the inarticulate burblings of a soul in pain. 
 We carry him into a cottage. I cut away his cotton 
 tunic and his shirt. There is an ugly red wound 
 just under the shoulder. We remove his trousers. 
 The bullet has ploughed its way through flesh and 
 bone and passed out at the back. I cleanse his leg 
 with warm water and Condy's fluid ; I probe for 
 the bullet in the shoulder. I find it embedded in a 
 network of muscles. I am very much annoyed ; 
 this means a police inquiry unless I can keep this 
 fool of a Tomaso quiet. I know nothing of Alfonso's 
 death, nor of Chella, sitting in his cottage shaking 
 with fear. But events move quickly. Violeta,
 
 104 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 tear- and terror-stricken, comes hastening up. She 
 has found the dead Alfonso under the wood-pile. 
 I patch together the facts. Not a doubt about it ; 
 Tomaso is the man. In due course he is in the hands 
 of the law and the- care of the prison doctor. 
 
 The day after the trial, conviction, and sentence 
 of this unhappy piece of human driftwood, possibly 
 descended from some Spanish grandee (mixing the 
 breed is a dangerous deed) I meet the defending 
 lawyer. " I suppose an appeal would be useless ? " 
 " Quite. Besides, between ourselves, he told me 
 that Alfonso Burgos was his fifth, and that, if he ever 
 gets out, Jackson will be his sixth." " 'Nuff said." 
 " He's not so lucky as a ruffian I knew down in the 
 Petend District," says the lawyer. " He had had 
 a lurid life. Finally he fell in love with a pious 
 Catholic girl. Went before the priest with her. 
 When the D.C. paid an official visit, the fellow 
 marches up bold as brass. Says he has committed 
 seven murders, of which there is now no evidence, 
 but that he is a reformed character. The D.C. 
 says he is glad to hear it. ' Of course,' the ruffian 
 added, ' if my girl, OHve, turns me down for somebody 
 else, I shall kill her too, and that will make eight.' " 
 
 At the point where I divagated into the story of 
 the unhappy Chella I was about to remark that we 
 must establish a true counterpoise between town 
 and country. But I must close here, resuming the 
 subject some other time. I hear the siren of the 
 mail steamer, and the motor boat waits for me to 
 close the letter-bag. 
 
 Your affectionate uncle, 
 
 Anthony Farley.
 
 XI: ON COMMERCE 
 
 My dear George, 
 
 I have already dwelt upon the distinction 
 between the public service and business, the point 
 of greatest interest to me being that in business a 
 man is as independent as a pirate, with not a little 
 of piratical romance thrown in. Particularly is 
 this true if you stray from the beaten tracks and are 
 not afraid of a little risk, both personal and financial. 
 Without deviating one iota from the literal truth, I 
 could write two or three books on the careers of 
 merchant venturers in all parts of the world that 
 would be read as sheer romance. I close my eyes 
 and recall memories of strange figures in China, 
 Burma and Persia ; of Frenchmen, Germans, 
 Belgians, as well as Britishers, not to mention one 
 or two Chinamen and Japanese. I do not mean by 
 this the accumulation of vast fortunes ; that is the 
 least romantic feature of their lives and generally 
 the most vulgar. The wholesale manufacture of 
 South African millionaires is in the main the most 
 sordid story of aggrandisement in the whole of our 
 commercial history. Rhodes, let us grant it, was 
 an exception. He knew there were big things in 
 life beyond his bank balance. I remember his dying 
 words: " So Httle done ; so much to do." They say 
 he said it ; it is probably apocryphal ; nevertheless, 
 the phrase conveys some idea of the man's rest- 
 less energy. Have you noticed, by the way, that 
 tradition has a way of putting appropriate last 
 words into dying men's mouths ? Goethe is an 
 instance : " Light ; more light." I Hke a man to 
 
 105
 
 io6 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 die true to form. Our estate manager, for example, 
 who died the other day : he had Hved a hard Hfe ; 
 he died game. For two days he knew his fate. 
 Was he ' resigned ' ? Not in the least. I saw him 
 just before the end. He was in agonies and half the 
 time under morphia. I never saw such a vigorous 
 protest against the reigning power that cuts a man 
 off in his prime. There is a phrase in the Old 
 Testament about some ancient Israelite who, in 
 anger, " smote his breast." I could never visualize it. 
 And now I understood. This man, contemplating the 
 fruitful years that might have been his, to which he 
 felt himself legitimately entitled, hterally smote his 
 breast in unrestrained anger. " It's a damned in- 
 justice, a rotten shame ! " he exclaimed, with each 
 stroke of his hand upon his breast. " Now, I'll say 
 good-bye to you all and the doctor can send me asleep 
 with morphia." In this recalcitrant spirit did he die. 
 But I divagate ! By romantic (the word has 
 changed its meaning since Queen Victoria rounded 
 off her Hfe) I mean that sense of doing something 
 really worth while and finding in it a never-failing 
 fascination. Let me tell you the story of Jonathan 
 Plimsoll, our local millionaire. He paid me a visit 
 the other day. Altogether a charming time that 
 lingers pleasantly in my memory. He came down 
 in his motor boat, arriving just before sundown. 
 We ate fish caught in the bay and venison killed 
 in the pine-ridge. The sun went down behind 
 the western mountains, splashing them with golden 
 showers and shafts. There was no moon and so the 
 stars came down close to us, multitudinous, and of 
 great magnitude. The sand-flies being well behaved,
 
 ON COMMERCE 107 
 
 we sat out on the verandah and were lulled into lazy 
 silence by the softly lapping lullaby of the Caribbean 
 waves. Orion bestrode the high heavens ; Venus, 
 with varicoloured eyes, glanced at him in passionate 
 entreaty. To the north we saw King Charles's Wain 
 carrying a load of sparkUng jewels ; while, to the 
 south, the Southern Cross lay against the black 
 wall of Beyond. 
 
 Plimsoll scanned the skies through his Zeiss glasses, 
 discovering unseen stars and unsuspected nebulae. 
 Softly he quoted : 
 
 "... in such a night 
 Stood Dido, with a willow in her hand, 
 Upon the wild sea-banks, and waved her love 
 To come again to Carthage." 
 
 " Yes," I said, " Matthew Arnold described that 
 passage as ' drenched and intoxicated with the fairy 
 dew of natural magic ' ; but I like better the words 
 in the Psalm, ' When I consider thy heavens, the 
 work of thy fingers, the moon and the stars, which 
 thou hast ordained . . . ' " 
 
 " Was ever a word more exquisitely chosen ? 
 exclaimed Plimsoll. ' Ordained ! ' and he intoned it 
 like the bass response in an anthem. 
 
 " Pish ! " I rephed, " what should two ancients 
 hke you and me be doing quoting old tags ? Tell 
 me, now, why don't you go home ? You have made 
 your pile." 
 
 " I go home nearly every j^ear," he answered. " I 
 hate the English winter and I don't like the hot 
 season out here. But, after all, this is my home. 
 It was here that I met romance."
 
 io8 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 " Tell me all about it ; confess to me your sins 
 this night." 
 
 In a Yorkshire accent, terse and fibrous, so 
 different from the soft, formless patois of Central 
 America, PHmsoU told me his story. 
 
 " I was born in the usual way ; went to school 
 according to schedule ; learnt all the copy-book 
 maxims such as ' Honesty is the best policy,' ' Seest 
 thou a man diligent in his business ? he shall stand 
 before kings,' and truck of that sort. Then to the 
 Yorkshire College — now Leeds University — where I 
 picked up French, German, and Spanish. Then into 
 the textile business. At twenty-eight I was a junior 
 partner ; at thirty-two, by a stroke of luck, senior 
 partner. At thirty-five, as I wanted to see the 
 world, I sold out at a decent price. Then began 
 my first wanderjahre. I went to Vienna, thence to 
 Constantinople. I visited Greece and drifted into 
 Asia Minor. I stood upon the Hill of Calvary ; I 
 stood beside Our Lord's tomb. I argle-bargled in 
 the bazaars of Smyrna, Damascus, and Bagdad. 
 Then I wandered into Egypt and, so to speak, 
 shook hands with that hoary old fraud the 
 Sphinx. 
 
 " At Cairo I received a cable asking me to return 
 home. So back to London I came. I was met there 
 by a group of business-men with whom I had had 
 deahngs. ' We want you to go out to Honduras,' 
 they said. ' Where the devil is that ? ' I asked. 
 They would all be damned if they knew, they 
 answered, but they had spent a pot of money out 
 there trying to get logwood for their dyes. Their 
 man out there was always going to begin, but some-
 
 ON COMMERCE 109 
 
 how got no forrader, so they wanted me to go out, 
 investigate and report. I wasn't very keen about it, 
 but they offered a fat fee, so I consented. Then I 
 got an atlas to find out where I was going. And 
 that is how I first came here. 
 
 " Well, I investigated, drew up a report and 
 recommendation, posted the document, and sailed 
 for New Orleans. From thence I made for the 
 Yellowstone Valley, moved leisurely toward Chicago 
 and New York, finally reaching home. Within a 
 week they were after me again. ' Look here,' they 
 said, ' we want you to run our show out there.' 
 ' You must put up thirty thousand pounds,' I 
 answered. ' All right,' said they. So I came out 
 here a second time. I very soon got things ship- 
 shape. Just as the hiring season had begun I 
 received a cable. ' We are putting the money into 
 a South African gold-mine. Close down everything 
 and return.' This annoyed me, for I felt a liking, 
 if not an actual fascination, for the tropics. I 
 obeyed instructions, paid off everybody, and so went 
 back home. 
 
 " When I had settled with the group, I said, ' You 
 don't mind, do you, if I go back and take up the 
 business where you left off ? ' ' Right-o ! ' said they ; 
 ' you go with our blessing. Pick up anything that 
 belongs to us. It is now yours.' So I came out a 
 third time. I began modestly, cutting logwood and 
 mahogany. I soon found that the best stuff was 
 in Yucatan. 
 
 Now in those days Yucatan was only nominally 
 under Mexico ; it was really run by one or two 
 big families and some tribal chiefs. We used to
 
 no LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 get these chiefs down to BeHze, fill them up with 
 potent rum, and then make them sign contracts 
 to deliver every kind of precious wood. And this 
 despite the fact that a prominent Mexican, Luciano 
 Alvaravo, held the whole Yucatan concession from 
 Porfirio Diaz. The informality of these proceedings 
 made me anxious. I knew that old Diaz had a 
 sharp and heavy way with him ; that if he gave 
 a concession sooner or later he would implement 
 his contract. So I went to Yucatan and looked up 
 Alvaravo. ' I have come to see you about the con- 
 cession you hold from the Mexican Government,' 
 I said. ' Where do you come from ? ' he asked. 
 ' BeHze,' said L ' Absurd,' said he, ' for there are 
 only thieves and pirates in Belize.' ' Mea culpa,' 
 said I, ' but I would reform — if you would make 
 it worth my while.' ' You are the first honest man 
 from Belize I have met ; when you go to heaven 
 you will surely be lonely. But because you are 
 
 honest and downright in your speech ' ' It's a 
 
 fine way we have in Yorkshire,' said L ' Because, 
 then, you come from Yorkshire, since you will have 
 it so, I will give you one-half of my concession. You 
 shall sell and I will look after things here.' ' Agreed,' 
 said I, ' but let's go to old Porfirio and make sure 
 that everything is in good order.' ' You go ; I like 
 not Mexico City,' said he. 
 
 "So I went to see Porfirio Diaz. I had good 
 introductions. Soon I saw him. Red-hot eyes 
 raked me fore and aft. I bowed stiffly but said 
 nothing. ' Your business ? ' he asked. ' Are you 
 going to exercise your rights in Yucatan ? ' I 
 asked. He laughed. ' Where do you come from ? '
 
 ON COMMERCE iii 
 
 * Yorkshire,' said I. ' Is it any concern of yours, 
 Senor, whether I subdue Yucatan or let it go to 
 the devil ? ' ' Yes,' said I. 'I propose to put 
 Alvaravo's concession on a business footing.' ' You 
 are a man of your word,' said Diaz ; ' authority will 
 be established in Yucatan and the Alvaravo con- 
 cession will be extended five years.' I hadn't 
 returned to my hotel half an hour before an equerry 
 rode up. ' Are you the Englishman who would 
 damn his Excellency's eyes ? ' 'It all depends,' 
 said I. ' You are surely he. His Excellency's 
 compliments and will you dine to-night at the Palace 
 — seven-thirty — a carriage will call for you at seven- 
 fifteen. Adios, Senor.' That is how Porfirio Diaz 
 and I became friends. 
 
 " The Alvaravo concession panned out well — and 
 I was content. When the time had nearly expired 
 Diaz sent for me. ' Your concession is dead,' said 
 he. ' I shall not renew it — at least not to Alvaravo. 
 I shall not renew it, in whole, to anybody. It would 
 be politically embarrassing. Take to your hotel a 
 map of Yucatan and with a blue pencil mark the 
 parts you would like reserved.' So I took a map and 
 a blue pencil. I drew oblongs round the mouth of 
 every river I knew ; I drew circles round spots that 
 I knew were rich ; I blue'd the Mexican-Honduran 
 frontier. Next morning I went back to Diaz. He 
 was in gorgeous military array. ' My requirements 
 are modest, your Excellency,' said I. He glanced 
 at the map. ' Is this as big as Yorkshire ? ' he asked. 
 ' Yorkshire is bigger than the American continent,' 
 I replied. ' If you say so, aniigo mio ; but, in- 
 asmuch as you would damn my eyes if I refused, so
 
 112 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 shall this concession be yours. Come ! I review 
 my troops ; you shall ride in my carriage.' I went 
 back to Alvaravo. ' The concession is mine ; you 
 are out of it. But you gave me half when you had 
 it ; so now I give you half when I have it. All is 
 as before.' Soon after came the aniline dyes, and 
 logwood became a drug upon the market. So I 
 left things to Alvaravo, not much caring what would 
 happen, and started off on other wanderjahre. I 
 reached 'Frisco by easy stages, and had decided to 
 go to Japan and China, when an urgent telegram 
 came from Alvaravo. ' Go to Chicago ; await letter.' 
 I went to Chicago and found a letter from my partner. 
 It appeared that a powerful group of American 
 chewing-gum manufacturers wanted their supply 
 of chicle organized in Mexico and Honduras. They 
 applied to Alvaravo, who referred them to me. 
 We Englishmen make fun of chewing-gum. After 
 all, it shghtly aids digestion and is quite as harmless 
 as chocolate. Well, I saw the Chicago crowd, and 
 in half an hour had contracted to supply them with 
 all the chicle they wanted. 
 
 " Then followed more busy years. After a time 
 the American concern was incorporated. The head 
 of it said to me : ' PlimsoU, old horse, you supplied 
 us all right, without fuss or superfluous palaver. 
 We're capitalizing at ten million dollars. This 
 block of shares is yours for keeps. You're the only 
 outside man.' 
 
 " That's all, I think," said Jonathan Plimsoll. 
 
 I answered : "It were surely enough." 
 
 " Strong man, Diaz," I remarked, after some 
 silence.
 
 ON COMMERCE 113 
 
 " Yes ; an Indian ; he knew his Indians and how 
 to deal with them. He was not the monster of 
 cruelty he was alleged to be. The horrors of Northern 
 Yucatan were overcoloured by the Standard Oil 
 interests to induce American intervention. To- 
 ward the end the old man was worried by the 
 persistent jacquerie of the Zapatistas and others." 
 
 "And Zapata? " 
 
 " I will tell you what Zapata is. One afternoon, 
 with a troop of his ruffians, he rode up to the hacienda 
 of a pure-bred Spaniard, quite of the hidalgo type. 
 As he sat outside, a pretty girl, the Spaniard's 
 daughter, crossed the patio. Turning to his Heu- 
 tenant, Zapata said: 'Get that girl for me.' The 
 Spaniard, who had been in the house preparing for 
 his guests, just then returned, ' Old man,' said 
 Zapata, ' I want your girl.' The Spaniard retorted : 
 ' You ! You ! You thrice-damned bastard ! ' 
 Zapata laughed it off. He sat at his host's table, 
 ate his bread and salt, toasted and passed comph- 
 ments. Leisurely rising, he called four of his men. 
 They took the old man, stripped him naked, passed 
 a rope under his arms, strung him up to a tree, 
 literally skinned him alive, and then filled him with 
 bullets. A few hours later the girl rushed from 
 Zapata's room a shrieking lunatic. They cut her 
 throat and buried her. Comme qa ! " 
 
 Next morning, after distributing largess with 
 princely hand, Plimsoll went off in what the natives 
 call the poof-poof. I watched it pass beyond the 
 Point, lying in a hammock and pondering how 
 closely allied were Chance and Romance. Then I 
 wondered if, after all, Romance were such a shy 
 
 H
 
 114 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 visitant to the haunts of men. Stray incidents and 
 memories of my own Hfe crowded in upon me. Of 
 how President Grant patted my childish head and, 
 in his slow and deliberate way, said: "God bless 
 you. He will surely bless you." Of a wandering 
 American who gave me a copy, unexpurgated, of 
 Whitman's Leaves of Grass ; of how, the following 
 year, by strange chance, I shook hands with the 
 poet in that little Concord house, and how he asked 
 me if England as yet appreciated his greatness. Of 
 whirling nights in great cities ; of the ordered law- 
 lessness of mining and lumber camps. Of nights 
 spent in bright Hght during the summer solstice in 
 Archangel, the tap-tap of military heels on the rough 
 pavement, the clink-clink of vodka glasses and the 
 shrill laugh of painted women, while day and night 
 the cranes creaked as the timber was feverishly 
 hoisted up to the decks of steamers. Of a wonderful 
 week at the Nijni-Novgorod Fair, where meet the 
 merchants and mendicants of East and West ; of 
 queer Tartar dances always in the end submerged in 
 drunkenness. Of solitudes in the Sahara, far from 
 my kind, when, try as I would, I could not measure 
 the possibilities of the human soul. Of nights spent 
 with thinkers and writers (being a stranger among 
 them), when epigram stimulated argument, to be 
 finally clinched by repartee and laughter. Of 
 Kipling's line : " Romance brought up the nine- 
 fifteen." Of quiet hours of inspiration, when the 
 secrets of the heart were revealed in a flash, and, in 
 a flash, escaped again into the void. Of Disraeli's 
 aphorism : " Adventures are to the adventurous." 
 I thought of the Persian pilgrims to whom the
 
 ON COMMERCE 115 
 
 gates of heaven opened while they slept. And I 
 almost reasoned myself into the belief that I too, 
 unHke those pilgrims, had touched the hem of 
 Romance's mystical robe. 
 
 Your affectionate uncle, 
 
 Anthony Farley.
 
 XII: TROPICAL 
 
 My dear George, 
 
 In my last letter I broke away into one of 
 those divagations which will surely be your death. 
 I had just got to a point I wished to emphasize : 
 that, apart from the economic, there is a psycho- 
 logical quality in the agricultural hfe essential to 
 our national health. If you ask me to define it I 
 frankly admit I'm stumped. Two points impress me. 
 Boeotia has a certain calm, stolid outlook that gives 
 a steadying weight to the hectic activities of town 
 life. It is reasonably conservative. I can fancy 
 an educated farmer living on the distich. 
 
 Things that are old need not be true ; 
 No, foolish man, nor yet the new. 
 
 The townsman rushes hither and thither, full of fads 
 and foibles, ready to rush into any mad adventure 
 so long as the idea ' takes ' : Tariff Reform, single 
 tax, back to the land, garden cities, and I know not 
 what else. Our farming folk decline to be rushed. 
 " Let's think about it for a year or two," they say. 
 Luckily, most of these fads won't stand thinking 
 about, and so Hodge (God bless him !) saves us from 
 many a morass. 
 
 The second point is closely allied to the first. In 
 your younger days did you read Eyes and No Eyes ? 
 I did. It succeeded Sandford and Merto?i. Well, 
 then, have you considered the value of the agricul- 
 tural eye ? It sees sap. Let the world deck you 
 out never so speciously, the agricultural eye pierces 
 through all your glittering trimmings and pronounces 
 
 ii6
 
 TROPICAL 117 
 
 judgment. Is there sap in you ? The agricultural 
 eye sees it. Are you sapless ? Urban artificialities 
 do not deceive it. When the agricultural eye grows 
 dim the country is in a bad way. 
 
 Just now I am amusing myself by guessing how 
 the agricultural eye regards Henry Abbott, Until 
 recently Henry has been engaged in various mercan- 
 tile pursuits in London. Henry is diabolically clever. 
 He can keep books, single or double entry ; he knows 
 the mysteries of ledger, cash-book, and journal. 
 He knows that if you cable to Calcutta at six o'clock 
 to-night you can have a reply by midday to-morrow. 
 He know^s all about import and export duties. Tare 
 and tret he takes in his stride. He can write short- 
 hand and work the typewriter. Henry believes in 
 method. There is nothing slipshod about Henry. 
 Henry is married to an ex-schoolmistress and, I 
 doubt not, his two children are models of propriety. 
 I have seen a photograph of Mrs Henry, Henry, and 
 their two children. It proves that Henry has lived 
 in an atmosphere of domestic bliss — and discipline. 
 Before the war broke out Henry was living on salary 
 and commission. Alas ! the war played the deuce 
 with Henry's income and broke up his domesticities, 
 turning his little suburban garden into a wilderness. 
 Llenry felt no call to military service, even though 
 he was a Scout-master. So Henry decided to cut 
 his old connexions and start a new career. My 
 colleagues in London, being firmly convinced that 
 I need somebody of method at my elbow, most 
 considerately shipped Henry to me. Accordingly, in 
 due course, I met Henry on the boat and proceeded 
 to make Henry's acquaintance.
 
 ii8 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 More quickly than I can tell it, I discover Henry to 
 be a vivacious and voluble Cockney. His eyes are 
 wide open, he seems to walk on springs, his tongue 
 moves featly. He has noticed things as he travelled. 
 " You know, sir, on the Atlantic, they put the clocks 
 on half an hour at midday. You see, we are travel- 
 ling toward the sun. Funny, isn't it, sir ? If ever 
 you cross, why, sir, you'll put your watch back half 
 an hour. That's because your back will be toward 
 the sun. But perhaps you have already crossed ? " 
 I humbly tell him that I am not quite sure whether 
 it is thirty-five or thirty-seven times. " You don't 
 say, sir ! " 
 
 After a day or two Henry has summed up our 
 little capital town. " Can't make it out, sir. They 
 close the shops between nine and ten o'clock. Funny- 
 Just when we are getting busy in London. And they 
 close for the day at four o'clock, just when they 
 ought to be rolling in the shekels." I gently remind 
 him that they open at six in the morning. " Well," 
 says Henry philosophically, " I suppose there must 
 be some reason for it. But in London, you know, 
 we don't keep business hours that way." I observe 
 that we are a long way from London. " Yes, sir ; 
 but it's part of the British Empire, ain't it ? " 
 Henry goes on : " The people seem to me to be 
 lazy. Haven't as yet seen anybody in a hurry." 
 I remark that in the tropics we are always 
 leisurely in our movements ; that the sun is very 
 hot ; that our blood gets thinned out. " Yes, sir ; 
 I've read something about that, phagocytes or 
 something ; but I don't feel it. And I've roughed 
 it quite a lot. Camped out with the Scouts and
 
 TROPICAL 119 
 
 that sort of thing." " You'll come to it," I tell 
 him. 
 
 I soon perceive that Henry has diligently read the 
 papers as he rode twice daily in the train. He has 
 all our pastors and masters safely docketed away in 
 his orderly brain. Bernhardi ? " He is the great 
 exponent of Prussianism." Henry proceeds to tell 
 me that Prussia runs the German Empire. " Another 
 Johnny is Nietzsche. Don't suppose you've heard 
 of him in these parts. He is the great exponent of 
 the superman. Super means above, you know. 
 Man above man. See ? " I tell him I think so, but 
 am not quite sure. It seems a little complicated to 
 my simple way of thinking. " Oh ! it's not really 
 difficult, you know, sir. You must first grasp 
 Darwin. He was the great exponent of the survival 
 of the fittest. A very big man, sir." I tell him that 
 I remember my teacher saying something about 
 Darwin, but that was a long time ago. " Yes, sir, 
 unless you keep, so to speak, in the swim, you lose 
 track of things. Now, there was Alfred Russel 
 Wallace. He was the great exponent of natural 
 selection. Finding your true mate [it sounded like 
 " mite "], you know. Very great man, sir. Died a 
 year or two ago. Got very old and dotty. Took 
 up with Spiritualism and Socialism, things that no 
 sane man holds with." I ask him if Darwin is still 
 alive. " Gawd bless you, died when I was a kid." 
 I tell him how glad I am to have somebody to tell me 
 all that's going on in the old world. For example, 
 who is this fellow Marx they sometimes mention in 
 the papers ? " Why, sir, Marx is the great exponent 
 of scientific Socialism. He wrote a book condemning
 
 120 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 capitalism. Might as well condemn the atmo- 
 sphere. Lots of Germans swear by him." I ask 
 how old is Marx. This time Henry is gravelled. 
 " Don't know, sir ; never heard of him till lately. 
 You'll hear more about him. He's, so to speak, 
 the brainy leader of the German Social Democrats," 
 And now I begin to see that in Henry's brain 
 he has a special docket neatly superscribed ' Great 
 Exponents.' Carlyle's name is dragged into our 
 conversation. I politely inquire after Carlyle, since 
 it is clear that Henry has something to say about 
 him. " Why, sir, Carlyle was the great exponent of 
 — I don't quite know how to put it — great man- 
 hood, heroes and that sort of thing. If you'll 
 excuse the expression, of ' guts.' A University 
 Extension lecturer said it to me privately. He had 
 supper with us after giving a lecture at the Calvin 
 Street Congregational Chapel. I took it down in 
 shorthand for our monthly magazine. It was 
 splendid. Its title was ' Great Thinkers.' It's fine 
 to belong to the British Empire. Take it from me, 
 sir, there's always sohd thinking behind our great 
 thinkers. The German philosophers are dreamy or 
 brutal. No happy mean, if you take my meaning. 
 I didn't mean a pun." And Henry crackles merrily. 
 J. S. Mill was the great exponent of modern 
 pohtical economy. Ruskin was the great ex- 
 ponent of beauty — ' arts and crafts,' and that 
 sort of thing, you know. A bit dreamy. Didn't 
 know anything about real life. Then there is 
 Mendel. Take it from me, sir, a coming man. 
 He is the great exponent of scientific breeding. A 
 disciple of Alfred Russel Wallace. Knows a lot
 
 TROPICAL 121 
 
 too about digestion. Says we ought to eat a 
 particular kind of cheese and we'll live a century. 
 Look out for Mendel, sir." 
 
 If Henry digs deep into science and philosophy, he 
 does not neglect the practical affairs of life. When 
 he knew he was coming out here he promptly in- 
 vested in a book on tropical agriculture. Henry 
 didn't intend to be caught napping. He tells me 
 about this book. It cost seven-and-sixpence. " It's 
 worth the money, take it from me. If you haven't 
 read it I'll be glad to lend it to you. Now, for 
 example, there's beans. Have you begun on 
 beans ? " I answer mildly that we are planting a 
 few. " I'm glad to hear it, sir. Very excellent for 
 the soil. Leguminous, you know. Then there's 
 ground-nuts. They contain oil. I wonder if you 
 know, sir, that there's a great demand for vegetable 
 oils — very great. Butter and margarine, and that 
 sort of thing." I tell Henry that we have some of 
 them already planted. " That's most encouraging, 
 sir. It seems to me that, even if you give science 
 and literature a bit of a miss, you're all there when 
 it comes to agriculture. But I've got a few tips out 
 of this book, sir, and I dare say you won't mind my 
 experimenting. Then, again, there's flowers. They 
 would add to the beauty of the estate. I'm strong 
 on begonias and fuchsias. Fine splash of colour. 
 We'll make the estate look like Kew." Henry is too 
 enraptured to notice my shudder of apprehension at 
 such a prospect. " Yes, sir, we can decorate the 
 cottages with beautiful flowers." I try to cool his 
 enthusiasm by telling him that where there is rich 
 colouring in flowers there is generally sugar ; that
 
 122 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 where there is sugar there will be at least a million 
 ants ; that ants in a house are a pest. " Ah, yes, 
 ants," chirps Henry ; " now, speaking of ants, have 
 you read Sir John Lubbock ? . . ." 
 
 Next morning duty calls me to the Estate. I 
 arrange that Henry, who is still in quarantine (small- 
 pox stalks abroad) shall come down on the schooner 
 three days later. He dutifully sees me off. " So- 
 long, sir ; see you on Saturday night. FU look 
 round the estate on Sunday and get to business on 
 Monday morning." The engine thug-thugs, the 
 boat moves quickly from the wharf. I am quit of 
 Henry for a space. Now for a quiet time ! 
 
 The schooner drops anchor alongside the pier on 
 Sunday morning. Negroes, half-breeds, women and 
 children of every shade of colour crowd the decks. 
 I discern Henry and bid him welcome. Henry is 
 full of discoveries. The niggers are a J0II37 lot. You 
 can make 'em laugh as easily as tickling a child. I 
 grimly remind him that our problem is to make 
 'em work. He tells me that the ' piccaninnies ' are 
 delightful. I tell him that we do not call them 
 piccaninnies out here. He's sorry ; he'd read some- 
 where that they were so known. Henry is loqua- 
 cious and vigorous. He'll just take a wash and brush 
 up and look around a bit. I show him to his quarters 
 and hope he'll be comfortable. He reminds me that 
 he knows how to rough it. I introduce him to his 
 fellow-clerks and make a bee-line for the Estate 
 House. It's too hot to-day for Henry's discourses. 
 After dinner I light a cigar and stroll down past 
 the commissariat and the labourers' cottages. It 
 is dark, for there is no moon. I hear a lively
 
 TROPICAL 123 
 
 conversation in the boat captain's cottage, " He's 
 a quaint bird," rumbles a voice ; " thinks we're very 
 ' interesting and amusing ' " — the last words in 
 good Cockney imitation. They all laugh good- 
 naturedly. " Yes," says somebody else ; " he wants 
 us to go in for what he calls intensive cultivation. 
 Read about it in some damned book." " What's 
 intensive cultivation ? " is asked. " Don't know ; 
 some tripe he's picked up. Says they do it in 
 Belgium." " Asked him to play poker. Said it 
 wasn't an EngHsh game and had no scientific basis." 
 Then they laughed again. 
 
 Next morning I ask the timekeeper to show Henry 
 around and not to let him get out of sight. So 
 Henry is put upon a trolly and a mule pulls them 
 down the tram-line. It is cut through virgin forest 
 where are tigers and wild deer and all manner of 
 living things that crawl or run or fly. As they pass 
 over a swamp they take Henry to a pool and show 
 him an old alhgator with its back barnacled like a 
 ship's bottom. A young alligator drops from an 
 overhanging branch, splash into the water. The 
 old fellow just turns slowly round and leers at Henry 
 through wicked eyes. Henry springs back in terror. 
 They take him on to cultivated fields, where he sees 
 beans and ground-nuts and hundreds upon hundreds 
 of acres of pale green banana-trees that rise up 
 twelve or fourteen feet then gracefully bow down 
 and rustle in the breeze. He sees orange-trees and 
 majestic mahogany-trees. The rich and seemingly 
 unconquerable luxuriance and fertility of tropical 
 land leave Henry speechless. Gone are his dreams of 
 begonias and fuchsias (look at those orchids !) ; his
 
 124 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 theories of intensive cultivation are blown upon with 
 deadly effect. And the next da}^ they mount Henry 
 upon a mild-mannered mule and tote him through 
 twelve miles of coco-nut trees that bend defiantly 
 toward the sea, thriving upon the iierce north- 
 easters it sends to subdue them. And the morning 
 and the evening are the second day. Henry returns 
 in a piano mood. 
 
 I next asked Henry to come to the Estate House 
 to take some letters in shorthand. He sits down 
 and fidgets. " Beg pardon, sir," he says, " but I've 
 been talking to you like a bally fool. Of course, you 
 were pulling my leg a bit. But I never dreamt that 
 it was so rich out here. It leaves me without words." 
 And (believe me or not, as you like) Henry is sud- 
 denly surcharged with emotion, for a new vision has 
 come to him. " That's all right," I reply soothingly ; 
 " we must all learn the lesson of humility out here. 
 I feel just as you do. Take this : ' Dear Sir, — I am 
 duly in receipt of your letter of the 30th ult.' " 
 " What spacing do you like on the typewriter, 
 sir ? " " Double spacing and a wide margin," I 
 answer. The agricultural eye looks with favour 
 upon Henry, who is now one of us. 
 
 This divagation into Henry's pilgrimage means, I 
 fear, that once again I must postpone my threatened 
 dissertation upon industry as an occupation. The 
 night grows late. The breeze has swung round from 
 the sea to the land (do I bore you with constant 
 references to the winds and breezes ? Remember 
 they are veritably life to us), and marvellous multi- 
 form moths, driven hither from the trees, flutter 
 in through open doors and windows. They strike
 
 TROPICAL 125 
 
 against the punkah lamps and cluster on walls and 
 ceihng. On the paper, as I write, drops a large 
 ladybird, harbinger of good luck. Against the wire 
 netting an ugly and ominous bat rattles and scrapes. 
 It is the vampire of story and legend. Out in the 
 paddock it settles upon the necks and haunches of 
 the horses, sucking their blood. It drinks to re- 
 pletion. Then, like the ancient Roman feasters, it 
 deliberately sickens itself that it may drink blood 
 again. It reminds me of the modern profiteers. 
 Surfeited with one profit on production, they unload 
 and take a second on consumption. One more pipe. 
 I walk up and down on the verandah. Two miles 
 out at sea a tramp steamer glides northward. Five 
 thousand tons at fourteen knots. In two days it 
 will be crossing the Gulf of Mexico, bound for 
 Galveston, where it will load cotton for Liverpool. 
 Having faced the Atlantic, is it destined to be sent 
 to the bottom by some torpedo ? The captain is a 
 kindly fellow. The last time he was here we dined 
 at the same table. I pray Neptune to strike with 
 his trident any submarine that would do my friend 
 an injury. The thought that this boat is bound for 
 England fills me with a yearning to go back. I 
 am oppressed with lonehness. Over there you are 
 writing a new history in blood, amid the ferment 
 of a milhon brains. I reflect, however, that out 
 here, in this lonely outpost, we fly the flag, we 
 feed our people, we send what men and succour 
 we can command. As Henry puts it, " We are doing 
 our bit." 
 
 Your affectionate uncle, 
 
 Anthony Farley.
 
 XIII : ON MANUFACTURE 
 
 My dear George, 
 
 Vainly have I struggled in my last two letters 
 to give you some kind of guidance along the danger- 
 ous paths of industry. I must in this letter try to 
 get to the point before something lures me from 
 the straight and narrow path. I think I have 
 already distinguished between commerce and in- 
 dustry — the former as selling at a profit, the latter 
 as making at a profit. From the purely economic 
 point of view, there can be no doubt that the manu- 
 facture of commodities is more valuable than merely 
 to organize their sale. Nor do I doubt that, as the 
 years pass, the man who owns machinery will be in 
 a more stable position than the man who controls 
 a selhng organization. Provided you are making 
 something of real utihty, you may be sure that, 
 other things being equal, you will become and 
 remain an eminently respectable member of society. 
 Glancing recently over a subversive book with 
 an innocent title — National Guilds — I came across 
 two passages : " Not the least happy consummation 
 of the Guild system will be the triumph of the 
 inventor and the conquest of degrading Labour by 
 the machine that displaces it — displaces it to its 
 spiritual and material advantage, and not, as to-day, 
 to its further degradation and reduction to the ranks 
 of the unemployed or unemployables." And again : 
 " Machinery has already supplanted slave labour 
 in the Occident ; and, just as machinery has de- 
 stroyed slavery, so more perfect machinery is 
 destined to destroy wagery." (The word ' wagery,' 
 
 126
 
 ON MANUFACTURE 127 
 
 sounding as it does like slavery, gives me an un- 
 comfortable feeling — makes me suspect that the 
 system is an abomination. I wonder !) But the 
 point to note is that these modern guildsmen are 
 not afraid of machinery ; on the contrary, they 
 welcome it. The old Trade Unionists hated all 
 mechanical improvements. That is a most im- 
 portant and significant change in intellectual out- 
 look and attitude. If the new ideas portend the 
 destruction of capitalism (remember that wagery is 
 its foundation), in engaging in machine production 
 (I mean on its technical side) you are not offend- 
 ing the Zeitgeist ; you are, in fact, consciously or 
 unconsciously, one of its votaries. Distinctly a 
 comforting thought. The writers of this disquieting 
 book go further : they distinguish between qualita- 
 tive and quantitative production. I am only a 
 simple-minded planter, far removed from the turmoil 
 of civilization, but I can see clearly that any intelli- 
 gently organized community must learn this lesson 
 at the peril of its soul. I remember, as a young 
 man, attending a lecture by Wilham Morris on 
 " Useful Work and Useless Toil." (It was after- 
 ward published in a book called Signs of Change ; 
 buy it and read it. Put it on the same shelf as 
 Matthew Arnold's Culture and Anarchy and Ruskin's 
 Munera Pulveris.) There is a craving, a hunger, 
 in all of us to do beautiful work ; you must degrade 
 a man, either spiritually or economically, before he 
 will readily succumb to useless toil. As with the 
 individual, so with the community : there must be 
 quality in the work of its artisans or it inevitably 
 sinks. If you go into industry, I implore you to
 
 128 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 remember that the soul of a people shows as much 
 in its workmanship as in its literature or its arts. 
 
 In this vital element of national life Great Britain 
 is at the parting of the ways. I am often ashamed 
 by various symptoms of British industrial life. For 
 example. Central America, from Mexico down to 
 Brazil, is plastered with British advertisements. 
 Of what ? Somebody's beer, somebody else's 
 whisky, another's gin, yet another's stout. In the 
 minds of Central American natives, Great Britain 
 is the home of intoxicants and financial sharks. 
 Industrial England ! I know that the impression is 
 false ; but has it no significance ? Of course there 
 is a simple reason. Quantitative production, to be 
 profitable, demands huge sales ; advertising helps ; 
 hence these ugly appeals to a population that would 
 be better without these particular commodities. 
 There is this consolation : these whiskies, gins, and 
 beers are the best of their kind. But cannot we 
 turn our artisans' labour to better account ? If 
 we cannot we are doomed. I am not a moralist. I 
 do not put it on moral grounds ; it is a plain and 
 palpable fact. All down the centuries, long before 
 Christ, a rebirth has been the essential of salvation. 
 A rebirth means a change of heart. BeHeve me — 
 I am in desperate earnest — there can be no change 
 of heart without a change in the spirit of our work. 
 Which is post hoc, which propter hoc, I do not pre- 
 tend to know. But the main fact I know as certainly 
 as I know the difference between a truth and a lie. 
 
 It is interesting and suggestive to note the differing 
 manners of the commercial travellers who come from 
 England to sell their goods. Goods ! Look at the
 
 ON MANUFACTURE 129 
 
 word ! Our whisky and gin visitors are distinctly 
 swagger — one of them travels with a valet. They 
 come with all the latest catch phrases of English 
 society ; they are tailored in Bond Street. They 
 bring their golf sticks, tennis rackets and fishing- 
 rods. They are put up at our clubs ; they give 
 quite a tone to our society. At the hotel bar you 
 can hear the popping of champagne corks ; the best 
 cigars are demanded, and damn the expense. Thus 
 do they flash across our little horizon, finally dis- 
 appearing in an artificial atmosphere of noisy 
 good-fellowship. Anon lands a quiet, unpretentious 
 man, who takes an ordinary room and unostenta- 
 tiously goes about his business. He sells cotton 
 goods, boots, food-stuffs, fabrics — useful things. Is 
 not the contrast symptomatic ? A few weeks ago a 
 patent medicine drummer came to town. He was an 
 ex-music-hall performer. He gave what he called 
 a ' stunt ' at the cinema. Everybody asked who 
 
 he was. "Why, don't you know? He sells " 
 
 Are all our satirists dead ? If you go into industry, 
 at least remember that it has its seamy side ; that 
 damnation stalks round the machine as certainly as 
 it lurks in the counting-house. Perhaps the writers 
 of National Guilds have hit upon some vital truth. 
 I, for one, cannot deny that some demoniacal spirit 
 always seems to emerge in the buying and selling of 
 machine-made products. 
 
 Yet the instinct to create with some mechanism, 
 simple or complex, is as deeply rooted as to create 
 with the hands. The artist knows it. A sane 
 painter looks to his brushes and the enduring quality 
 of his pigments ; the sculptor knows the quaHty
 
 130 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 both of stone and chisel ; an architect has his 
 compasses and a whole box of scientiiically made in- 
 struments. The implement, in short, has developed 
 as its master has grown. And we may agree that 
 the passion for mechanics is as natural and praise- 
 worthy as the passion for writing or painting. 
 Personally, I like the mechanician. Often I envy 
 him. I am certain that I hate to see his work ex- 
 ploited or degraded by the vulgarians. In the United 
 States he is rapidly approaching his apotheosis. 
 Sylvanus Wilkins is a case in point. Sylvanus has 
 already graduated in the American Press, not only 
 as an inventive genius, but as 'a great thinker.' 
 I must tell you something about him. 
 
 From earliest manhood, Sylvanus was ultra- 
 modern. I do not mean that he knew anything 
 about the Symbolists, Futurists, Cubists, or Vorticists 
 of his particular period. Sylvanus never heard of 
 them and, if he had, would promptly have denounced 
 them all as 'crazy.' He was ultra-modern in the 
 sense that he saw through the little silly and solemn 
 conventions of business life. Having proved himself 
 a bright and useful office-boy, he considered how to 
 better himself. His father, a man of simple piety, 
 tried to impress him with the importance of sound 
 Christian convictions as stepping-stones to a success- 
 ful and honourable career. As they strolled past the 
 great factory, the mainstay of the town, the loving 
 and confiding parent told young Sylvanus how John 
 Smith finally obtained a secure position. Times had 
 been hard, bitterly hard, and John Smith's young 
 family had experienced the severest privations. 
 John Smith had searched high and low, but there
 
 ON MANUFACTURE 131 
 
 was no work for him. It seemed as though God 
 had forgotten him. But John Smith had a faith 
 that would move mountains. Every morning he 
 would kneel down and pray^that God's helping hand 
 should be stretched out to His unworthy servant. 
 And it so fell out that John Smith, on a cold and 
 cheerless morning, never despairing, yet in depression 
 of spirit, went to see a great merchant prince, famous 
 for his religious benefactions. John Smith, in great 
 humility, asked for work, however menial. Now 
 the merchant prince was busy with a multitude of 
 letters and answered John Smith roughly that there 
 was no work for him. And John turned sorrowfully 
 away. His eye, passing miserably over the carpet, 
 descried a pin. He bent down and picked it up. 
 The merchant prince was puzzled. John put the 
 pin on the desk, saying : "A pin, sir. Waste not, 
 want not." Then the merchant prince looked at 
 John and saw signs of great suffering. And there 
 was a dusty patch on John's trouser-knee. "How 
 came you by that, my man ? " he asked. John 
 Smith was embarrassed, fidgeted on his feet, and 
 nervously scraped the nap on his well-brushed hat. 
 " Come ! Tell me ! " said the merchant prince, his 
 gruff voice for the moment softened as it yielded 
 to a kindly nature. John brushed the dust off 
 his knee, showing great distress. Finally, for the 
 merchant prince suspected it and pressed for an 
 answer, John Smith, his voice choked with emotion, 
 said that that morning, as always, he had prayed 
 for work. The heart of the merchant prince was 
 touched ; and thus, in God's good providence, 
 John Smith found work and faithfully served the
 
 132 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 merchant prince. Having told this story to Sylvanus 
 the pious father added : " So you see, my son, 
 how God guards his children and watches tenderly 
 over them," Sylvanus, who had listened with ill- 
 disguised impatience, said : " Cut it out. Dad." 
 This is what I mean when I describe young Sylvanus 
 as ultra-modern. 
 
 Sylvanus Wilkins lived up to his creed. Impiously 
 disregarding the commercial value of a dusty patch 
 upon his knee-cap, he carefully creased his trousers, 
 borrowed a natty shirt from Jeff Steele, borrowed 
 a multicoloured tie from Pete Whelen, borrowed an 
 imitation pearl pin from Andy Stevens, and, thus 
 gallantly arrayed, presented himself before the works 
 superintendent, declaring himself to be a mechanic of 
 exceptional attainments. He was given a job as 
 machine-minder at a greatly increased wage, and so 
 started on a career destined to end in brilliance and 
 wealth. Like many another urchin, Sylvanus had 
 a natural aptitude for machinery. Nor was he a 
 slouch. We find him attending lectures on mechanics 
 at the Philosophical Institution. He subscribes to 
 The Scientific American, The Model Engineer, Hobbies, 
 and The Popular Instructor. We next get another 
 glimpse at our hero's philosophy. He had noticed 
 a rather rough, yet dreamy, man, walking about the 
 machinery, apparently without aim or method. He 
 asks what stunt the man is doing. He is told that 
 he is a natural mechanical genius, whose improve- 
 ments have made the company rich. " Don't he 
 share in the dough ? " asks Sylvanus. " Nope," 
 comes the answer, " he's too busy thinking about 
 his next invention to worry about the plunks."
 
 ON MANUFACTURE 133 
 
 " Boob ! " says Sylvanus, " they don't catch me 
 giving away good notions for nix." Early in his 
 career, you observe, Sylvanus has grasped the fact 
 that clever men know how to exploit genius. Nor 
 does it take him long to discover that, no matter 
 who invents the machine, the important thing is to 
 register the patent. 
 
 Let us not think censoriously of Sylvanus. Let us 
 rather admire his acumen, his agility and his address. 
 Let us remember that he is the type of human pivot 
 round which revolves the great industrial system, 
 that marvellous flowering of Occidental civilization, 
 in such vivid contrast with Oriental inertia — that 
 Orient which barely blinked when the Roman legions 
 thundered by, and sank into sleep again. But I 
 anticipate. You observe that Sylvanus's eyes were 
 ' well skinned,' as they say down in Pennsylvania, 
 Having, by his alertness, or, as Mr and Mrs Sidney 
 Webb would say in a Fabian tract, by his efficiency, 
 mounted to the top of the proletarian ladder, 
 Sylvanus noted a new phenomenon. Young gradu- 
 ates from Harvard, Yale, Cornell, and Princeton 
 Universities captured all the salaried posts. He 
 knew more about practical mechanics than all these 
 upstarts put together. Nevertheless, a great gulf 
 divided them from him. In other words, they 
 occupied a higher ' status,' as those National Guilds 
 fellows put it. Sylvanus never hesitated. He had 
 been for three years an incurable ' tight- wad,' so 
 he ' lit out ' without ' batting an eyelid ' and ' hiked 
 off ' to a Western university, where, in due time, he 
 acquired good manners and an engineering degree. 
 He had changed his ' status.'
 
 134 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 I must not bore you too much with the subsequent 
 career of Sylvanus Wilkins. The child is father to 
 the man. As he began, so he proceeded and ended. 
 He remained true to his early vow. He never 
 parted with a new notion for nix. Au contraire ! 
 He was cunning as a weasel in extracting ideas from 
 more ingenuous souls. Need we then be surprised 
 that he soon became head of a manufacturing plant ? 
 Knowing Sylvanus, I should be surprised if he didn't. 
 
 It is at this juncture that Sylvanus swims into the 
 ken of the ubiquitous American pressman, who does 
 a 'write-up,' under the happy and altogether signi- 
 ficant title, "A Great Thinker." This article lies 
 before me. 
 
 The scene opens with an interview between 
 Sylvanus and his technical adviser. Sylvanus says : 
 •' We are wasting our energies and money in the 
 improvements we are putting into our product. 
 I've been thinking about it and I believe our funda- 
 mental principles are wrong." The technical man 
 protests that they are following the accepted prin- 
 ciples of mechanics. "Then," repHes Sylvanus, 
 " we shall have to abandon accepted principles and 
 make our own." (It reminds me of Napoleon and 
 Soult. " Sire, if circumstances permit," said Soult. 
 *' Monsieur, I make circumstances," said Napoleon.) 
 So experiments were begun, and after several months 
 things looked hopeless. The factory is closed down 
 (do not distress yourself about the workman, for 
 the sacred principle of the ' mobihty of labour ' 
 operates), and, after a long time, they 'hit it.' 
 Sylvanus keeps going by selling various ideas 
 acquired by his technical staff, and we are told that
 
 ON MANUFACTURE 135 
 
 several of these patents ultimately developed into 
 big concerns. 
 
 We discover as we go along that Sylvanus has 
 learnt that to handle men is quite as important as 
 working machines. He remembers the lesson of the 
 inventor in his first shop. He orders experiments to 
 be made in a certain direction. " Give this to old 
 Bill Baldhead, and this to little Fred Bowlegs, and 
 this to tall Bob Skinney." Gradually our ' great 
 thinker ' gets the machine he wants, and, in due 
 course, pouches the plunder. Sylvanus marches 
 from success to triumph, finally ending with a new 
 submarine that beggars description. 
 
 A rather curious thing happened at the funeral of 
 Sylvanus Wilkins. Nobody bothered to attend it. 
 The Mayor did not even send excuses. Sylvanus 
 had never concerned himself with social conditions. 
 His ' great thinking ' had gone into machinery ; he 
 had no thoughts to spare on the slums that gradu- 
 ally accumulated round his factory. How the people 
 around him lived did not interest him. Oddly enough, 
 after his death, the business prospered. 
 
 Here, then, is an industrial 'ideal,' the apotheosis 
 of the inventive and acquisitive mind. I am left 
 wondering if it was worth while ; if his brains could 
 not have been turned to greater social advantage. 
 Perhaps there is a more excellent way. Perhaps ! 
 
 I cannot get that disturbing book on National 
 Guilds off my mind. Is it possible that, when 
 Sylvanus bought the workmen's labour, he sold his 
 own soul ? 
 
 Your affectionate uncle, 
 
 Anthony Farley.
 
 XIV: CANONS OF CONDUCT 
 
 My dear George, 
 
 Should you persist in your intention to go 
 into industry, there are certain canons of conduct 
 necessary to success. You must severely bridle 
 your imagination. Bridle it, but do not kill it. 
 Imagination is essential in every occupation ; but 
 it must be directed into the right channels. You 
 need imagination, for example, to surmise accurately 
 what your colleagues and employees are thinking. 
 Even more important, what your customers feel 
 and think. For it will not be long befote you 
 discover that you are engaged in a struggle for 
 mastery with the buyers and consumers of your 
 products. Outwardly, you must be very humble 
 with your customers, who little think that you are 
 at their mercy. And so you are, unless you make 
 something that the public demands. Ultimately, 
 it is your responsibility to create that demand. 
 The first maxim in business is that the supply creates 
 the demand. There are a million bankrupt manu- 
 facturers and merchants walking the streets of 
 Europe and America, failures and wrecks, because 
 they disregarded or did not understand the truth 
 of this maxim. It is a little disconcerting to one 
 trained in the old-fashioned economy which is based 
 upon the law (" the law " ! Pish !) of supply and 
 demand. As a matter of fact, the two principles 
 do not exclude each other ; they merely belong to 
 different categories. What demand was there twenty 
 years ago for carpet-sweepers ? In the economic 
 sense, absolutely none. But the inventor of the 
 
 136
 
 CANONS OF CONDUCT 137 
 
 carpet-sweeper sensed some utility in it and created 
 a demand by the usual advertising methods. I 
 suppose there are now some milHons sold every 
 year ; there is now, economically considered, an 
 'effective demand.' Civilization, in its material 
 aspect, is a constantly increasing use of variegated 
 products. So, presuming you have got an article 
 to make that ' supplies a long- felt want,' you must 
 convince every possible consumer that, consciously 
 or unconsciously, he (or more generally she) has all 
 along felt that want. You will find that psychology 
 plays a big part in your campaign. If you succeed, 
 you have, in fact, ceased to be the servant of your 
 wholesale and retail customers and become their 
 master. Nevertheless, you must sedulously main- 
 tain the pretence that you are still their most obedient 
 servant. I will add that, whatever may be the 
 relations subsisting between yourself and your 
 customers, you still remain the servant of the com- 
 munity. Your profit is merely the clumsy and 
 inequitable form of remuneration adopted under 
 our existing economic system. In the old days we 
 legalized privateering ; nowadays we legalize pro- 
 fiteering. Our modern profiteers, forgetting this 
 simple fact, are likely to destroy themselves by 
 swelled-headedness. They may go the way of that 
 great privateer Sir Walter Raleigh. 
 
 Having secured some article for which a demand 
 may be created, your troubles are only beginning. 
 First, you must make adequate financial arrange- 
 ments. And you must stress the word ' adequate.' 
 Do not provide for nine-tenths of your require- 
 ments when you must have ten-tenths to succeed. I
 
 138 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 remember, as I write, several failures, some rather 
 tragic, due entirely to a shortage of initial finance. 
 Of course, things being as they are, you must not 
 stake all your personal resources. You will ' let 
 the pubHc in on a good thing.' You will, there- 
 fore, form a joint-stock company. Do not, in your 
 prospectus, estimate your revenue at more than 
 twice what you expect. A wise investor always 
 cuts a prospectus estimate in half. If you go higher 
 than double your estimated revenue, you may 
 subsequently find yourself the victim of extremely 
 unpleasant legal proceedings. In the Articles of 
 Association, take care to reserve to the directors 
 alone the power to borrow money and to pledge the 
 company's assets. Then see to it that you control 
 the Board, and you can then proceed with your 
 business, which has thus been considerately financed 
 by other people. At the company's annual meeting 
 you can assure your shareholders, your hand upon 
 your heart, that the Board has been single-minded 
 in watching the shareholders' interests. Give them a 
 dividend and they will believe anything you tell them. 
 Having adjusted your finance to your require- 
 ments, your next problem will be the site and 
 general surroundings of your factory. These are 
 necessary desiderata : good transit accommodation, 
 power, water, light. There are plenty of old factory 
 sites. Avoid them like the plague. And never pay 
 rent. Buy your land outright. This means in 
 practice that you must start in some suitable rural 
 district. Buy your land at agricultural prices and 
 then transform it into urban values. Take your 
 time about this. Fix on some happy rural village
 
 CANONS OF CONDUCT 139 
 
 near a junction of two railways. Make quite sure 
 that there is an ample supply of water, preferably 
 by an artesian well. Then buy up the whole vil- 
 lage, particularly the manorial rights. You will, of 
 course, seize the common rights. If any Felix Holt 
 or village Hampden object, concihate him. If he 
 remain obdurate, then freeze him out. The villagers 
 will be on your side ; are you not bringing good 
 money to the district ? Then begin your pioneer- 
 ing. You will promptly build carpenters' sheds, a 
 smithy, a machine shed. You will sink your well. 
 You will arrange with the railway company to 
 run a side-line on to your site. You must build 
 some cottages for your workmen. You will, in 
 fact, be a very busy man. Then will come the 
 auspicious hour when your machinery is delivered 
 and the yet more auspicious day when it is erected 
 and ready for use. Circumspice ! The sleepy 
 village of Ingleby is transformed into a busy little 
 factory town. Are you not a benefactor ? Slap 
 your hand upon your breast ! You are an important 
 person ; you have a stake in the country. 
 
 " Is it as easy as all that? " you ask. No, my 
 boy. Apart from the anxieties incident to the 
 technical production of your particular commodity 
 and the even greater anxieties in selling it, you will 
 very quickly find yourself enmeshed in a network of 
 local problems difhcult to solve. First, your work- 
 men. They find life dull after the lights and lures of 
 town. Unless you are aUve to the situation, you 
 will find that the young workmen will leave you. 
 They won't stay where there are no girls, music- 
 halls, or cinemas. Inconsiderate, but natural. So you
 
 140 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 must organize entertainments, cricket and football 
 clubs. This involves a public hall. As you must 
 build it to keep your best workmen, it pays to make 
 a virtue of necessity. Open it with pomp and for- 
 mality. Bring down the local M.P., who will sing your 
 praises, which, in your turn, you will modestly depre- 
 cate. If your middle-aged workmen have famiUes of 
 girls, you must provide them with pretty and entic- 
 ing cottages. See to it that there are as many girls 
 in the district as there are unmarried workmen. 
 This is what the Fabian Society calls ' social 
 science.' There will, of course, be ' accidents,' but 
 if you call to your aid the local vicar or rector (I 
 never could distinguish one from t'other) and one or 
 two Nonconformist ministers, you may rest assured 
 that the morals of the young people will be closely 
 scrutinized. When a wedding seems imminent, call 
 in the young man, give him a wedding present and 
 build a cottage for him. Do not charge too high a 
 rent ; it is not prudent to exact more than twenty 
 per cent, on your outlay. Never part with your free- 
 hold. Your freehold is really a grip-hold on your 
 workmen. Remember that your ultimate purpose 
 is economic power. You must hide it under a guise 
 of ' social service.' 
 
 Do not play any favourites between the various 
 religious communities. You can make as much 
 profit out of the labour of a Baptist as an Anglican. 
 (The Salvation Army is particularly useful in provid- 
 ing cheap labour.) Entertain the Nonconformist 
 ministers to lunch, on the plea that they have 
 evening meetings ; invite the parson to dinner. Be 
 careful not to offer the Nonconformists any intoxi-
 
 CANONS OF CONDUCT 141 
 
 cants and remember to comment upon the evils of 
 strong drink. The vicar will drink you level in 
 claret or Burgundy. As a liqueur, give him Bene- 
 dictine. This opens up the conversation on the re- 
 lations of Church and State in France, which gives 
 the parson his opportunity and does not commit you. 
 But, in essentials, maintain equality between all the 
 preachers. Their business is to maintain the social 
 system of which you are by now a strong prop. They 
 are your servants ; you are the master ; don't abdi- 
 cate. Oddly enough, I first learnt this from Dudley 
 Singleton. Just after he had been sent down from 
 Oxford he became possessed of two villages in Bed- 
 fordshire, with the lands intervening and adjacent 
 thereto. Dudley was not such a fool as he seemed. 
 His sense of humour never deserted him. He swore 
 with all the facility of the Duke of Wellington and 
 you couldn't fool him with a horse. One evening at 
 the club, when I was feeling bored, he descended 
 upon me, noisy, burly, and chuckling. " Tony, old 
 toff, damme, dine with me," he burbled. He bore 
 me off, more than half a willing captive. I regret to 
 tell you that we drank a great deal too much. And 
 all the time Dudley never stopped chuckHng. " Tell 
 me the joke," I finally demanded. 
 
 " Tony," said he, " behold in me — moi qui vous 
 parle, as the literary guys would say — the stern and 
 unbending defender of religious hberty and equahty." 
 
 " Don't be an ass," I said ; " what do you know 
 about it ? " 
 
 " 'Twas thus. The sky-pilot who has the cure of 
 souls down our way is soused with vinegar, believ- 
 ing, damn his eyes, that there is no salvation outside
 
 142 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 the Thirty-nine Articles. Why the deuce they stopped 
 at thirty-nine always beats me. Old Jowett, when 
 asked to sign them, said : ' Certainly ; forty if you 
 like ! ' Game old cock ! When he carpeted me he 
 said in his squeaky voice : ' Mr Singleton, I regret to 
 tell you that your premature addiction to racing and 
 other games of chance is deemed by the University 
 authorities to be incompatible with your work as a 
 student. You will, therefore, at your earliest con- 
 venience, remove yourself beyond our jurisdiction. 
 You will, I trust, settle with the bursar, as we cannot 
 absolutely rely upon being favoured with a remittance 
 hereafter.' ' Sorry, sir,' said I ; ' very jolly here.' 
 ' No doubt, no doubt,' squeaked the httle 'un. ' I 
 am far from affirming that a gentleman of means and 
 leisure may not show a certain discriminating devo- 
 tion to the turf. I advise you, sir, to be very careful. 
 Do not bet beyond your means and do not mortgage 
 your estate. Good afternoon, sir.' " 
 
 " Served you right." 
 
 " Didn't care a tuppenny damn, Tony. Anyhow, 
 I settled in at the old place and started training 
 a couple of gee-gees. After a while one of the 
 farms became vacant. £700 a year. Along comes a 
 young fellow, well set up, looking me straight in the 
 eye. Wanted the farm. Told him to see the agent. 
 Said he would like to deal with me and would pay 
 his rent in advance. New sensation, Tony. Rent 
 in advance. What ? ' Done with you,' said I. 
 ' Here's my cheque,' said he. ' Have a drink,' said 
 I. ' No, thanks,' said he ; ' don't take it.' A week 
 later in pops Old Vinegar. ' Mr Singleton, I have 
 made the most careful inquiries into the- antecedents
 
 CANONS OF CONDUCT 143 
 
 of John Humphreys, your new tenant. I deeply 
 regret to inform you that he is a Methodist.' ' He 
 paid his rent in advance,' said I ; ' wish there were 
 a few more Hke him.' ' I deemed it my duty to 
 warn you,' said he. ' Don't mention it,' said I. 
 ' Have a drink.' ' Perhaps a Httle whisky in soda,' 
 said Old Vinegar. Sure enough, the fellow was a 
 Methodist. Queer thing, Methodism. Spreads like 
 measles. Humphreys collected a few of them and 
 held meetings in the barn. Could hear them roaring 
 their hymns a mile off. Humphreys then applied for 
 the use of the schoolroom. No go ; Old Vinegar 
 headed him off. Next he tried to get an empty ware- 
 house belonging to Driver, the grocer. Old Vinegar 
 threatened to withdraw his custom if Driver con- 
 sented. Driver funked it. Damned if Humphreys 
 didn't come straight to me. ' Squire,' said he, 
 ' some of us don't hold with the Church of England 
 and would like to worship God in our own way and 
 in a chapel of our own.' ' Why the devil shouldn't 
 you ? ' said I. ' The parson has done us down every 
 time,' said he. ' Damn his eyes,' said I ; 'I'll give 
 you a plot of land to build on.' ' Thank you kindly, 
 Squire. It will make us very happy.' ' Right-o ! ' 
 said I, ' and hanged if I don't give you twenty-five 
 quid to start the building.' In a week or less Old 
 Vinegar rushes through my sacred portals. ' I have 
 just heard, Mr Singleton, that you have presented a 
 plot of land to the Methodists for a chapel, where 
 they will preach their pernicious doctrines.' ' Don't 
 let it worry you,' said I ; ' have a drink.' ' Sir,' said 
 he, ' I should be false to my vows and unworthy of 
 my cloth if I did not most strongly protest against
 
 144 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 this impious encouragement to schism.' ' Don't 
 know anything about that and care less,' said I. 
 ' Well, sir,' said he, ' on a matter such as this, touch- 
 ing the spiritual welfare of souls committed to my 
 charge, I think you ought to have consulted me.' 
 ' Not at all,' said I ; ' not at all. If I choose to give 
 a plot of land to the Mormons, damme, I'll do it. 
 And let me remind you that when your predecessors 
 called on my sainted ancestors they were given 
 dinner in the kitchen.' Had him there, Tony. 
 Gentle hint that it was time to put him in his place. 
 Well, to cut the cackle, in a few weeks back comes 
 Master Humphreys. ' Squire,' says he, ' on the 
 third of next month we lay the foundation-stone. 
 We want you to do it.' ' What'll it cost ? ' I asked. 
 Humphreys laughed. ' Whatever you choose to 
 give, Squire.' ' I won a thousand last week on 
 Whistling Jock, so damned if I don't give you a 
 hundred.' And, by thunder ! Tony, we had the cere- 
 mony this afternoon. Gave up a race-meeting for it. 
 Prayers and hymns and yum-yumming. They gave 
 me a silver trowel. Damned if I'm not the most 
 popular man in the county. Thinking of standing 
 as a Liberal. If I do, I'll win in a canter. Take my 
 tip, Tony ; keep the parsons in their place. Play 
 you a hundred up." 
 
 A serious difficulty that will confront you will be 
 the village stores. Depend upon it, the local trades- 
 man will plunder your employees unless you step in 
 and stop it. You can open a company shop or put 
 some young tradesman into a shop which you con- 
 trol. Both of these methods are dangerous. If it 
 be a company shop, any dissatisfaction reacts in the
 
 CANONS OF CONDUCT 145 
 
 works. If it be a young man, the time required in 
 checking and advising him can be much better spent 
 in other directions. On the whole, I advise you 
 to start a co-operative society. The Co-operative 
 Movement is quite safe from your point of view. It 
 is firmly based on the wage-system and is not there- 
 fore subversive. Build a lecture-hall for them. Go 
 to some trouble in selecting the lecturers. Choose 
 subjects like astronomy, botany, chemistry, and 
 geology. A wise plan would be to get your private 
 stenographer appointed as lecture secretary. If an 
 ' unsound ' lecturer comes, be careful to entertain 
 him yourself. And give him a good time. 
 
 Above all, don't play the fool by opposing the 
 Trade Unions. On the contrary, encourage them. 
 Remember two things : that it is better to discuss 
 wages with one representative man than with one 
 hundred individuals ; and that with a strong Union 
 in your partcular trade you can always ca.culate 
 to a nicety what your competitors are doing. I need 
 not tell you, in this year of grace, that high wages pay 
 best. I do not doubt that the Trade Unions are 
 destined to grow ; that they are the harbingers of a 
 new order of society. So be it ! Fight the evitable ; 
 yield gracefully to the inevitable. 
 
 How now, my budding millionaire ! 
 Your affectionate uncle, 
 
 Anthony Farley.
 
 XV: FAITH 
 
 My dear George, 
 
 I read with sympathy your last letter, in 
 which you told me that your attendances at chapel 
 are perfunctory and that both the ritual and the 
 sermons leave you cold and unimpressed. You wish 
 it were not so. I am glad that it is so. At your age 
 I felt as you do. And without regret. There are 
 doubtless young men and women who, in their early 
 years, look in upon their souls with fear and con- 
 sternation, I suspect them to be abnormal. Like 
 Roland in Aurora Leigh, they root up the violets 
 to discover the scent. I am content that your soul 
 should grow without introspection. Rest assured 
 (and with this assurance set about the business of 
 life) that you need not seek religion, because, in God's 
 good time, it will find you. It is my experience — 
 take it for what it is worth — that practically all 
 young men of early piety are insufferable prigs. 
 
 I do not mean that you should treat lightly any 
 searching questions that go to the roots of your faith 
 and conduct, but rather that you should realize that 
 illumination comes with growth and experience ; 
 that only the urgent and imperative questions need 
 be answered in the days of your pupilage. I venture 
 the assertion that very few of these questions call 
 imperatively for an immediate answer. There is a 
 whole universe of thought and emotion between 
 flippancy and priggishness. Flippancy with serious 
 things is a crime ; priggish assumption of piety is a 
 disease. There is a passage in Marcus Aurelius 
 which has always lingered in my memory. " To 
 
 146
 
 FAITH 147 
 
 Rusticus," he says, " I am beholden that I first 
 entered into the conceit that my Hfe wanted some 
 redress and cure." I think that he also thanked 
 Rusticus for warning him against walking about the 
 house in a long robe. (That long robe ! A hving, 
 but happily retired, proconsul, who mistook ostenta- 
 tion for statehness and affectation for conduct, in- 
 sisted upon his wife, even in bed, addressing him 
 as " Your Excellency.") Just as Antoninus re- 
 membered gratefully his Rusticus, so I would Uke 
 you to remember me for teUing you the same thing. 
 It is when we realize that life needs redress and cure 
 that we are in the true way of salvation. 
 
 Now if you and I do not know the meaning of 
 religion pure and undefiled, who does ? How easily 
 and vividly can I recall those early days when your 
 father and I lived in a religious atmosphere so 
 exquisitely simple and confiding that God, so im- 
 manent was He, veritably seemed our father's 
 father ! We looked up to this God of ours with a 
 spiritual vision undimmed by ritual or dogma. Nor 
 were we disturbed by those rational questions that 
 come to us with diabolical promptitude when we fly 
 from the nest . The morning worship in the breakfast- 
 room, attended by the family, the servants and 
 the visitors (who almost invariably were of our own 
 faith), so coloured our day that, more than thirty 
 years after, more than a quarter of a century since I 
 severed the religious tie (reprobate that I am), I rise 
 from breakfast with a vague sense of some course 
 untasted, some inadequacy, some subtle and fleet- 
 ing appetite unsatisfied. I remember stray phrases, 
 and even long passages, from your grandfather's
 
 148 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 prayers, the rising and falling cadences tinged with a 
 rich Irish brogue. Ah, I hear it ! " Pluck from us 
 our secret sins ; cleanse our souls from every stain. 
 Open up our providential path ; lead us in the way 
 everlasting. And now, O Lord, as we go our several 
 ways, each to the daily task, lighten our burdens, if 
 it so please Thee. Grant us opportunities in Thy 
 service ; make us worthy of such service, that we 
 may grow in grace and so humbly minister to Thy 
 glory." Not without an acute sense of isolation I 
 remember an incident of personal interest to you. 
 It was the morning after your mother had accepted 
 your father. The Quaker silence, so concentrated 
 yet so reposeful, that always followed the Bible 
 reading, was broken by your father, who, throwing 
 himself upon his knees, passionately prayed that he 
 might to the very end be a loving and faithful 
 husband, and, if God willed it, a father who would 
 know how to pass on the celestial fire. 
 
 I always listen with impatience and some con- 
 tempt to clever young men who sneer at Puritanism 
 such as this ; I never see a play at a theatre with some 
 mephitic sex-problem (so called) without reflecting 
 that it is but foam thrown up against the rock out of 
 which you and I and a million others were hewn. 
 Make no mistake about it, in essence we who were 
 bred like this are the true aristocrats. For we were 
 conceived in purity, born in love, nurtured in the 
 simplicities of an abiding laith, and finally cultured 
 in a Uterature sweet and clean as running water. 
 
 Yes ; aristocrats, no less. I have met those 
 whom the world calls aristocrats, the bluest of blue- 
 bloods, and never batted an eyehd. Not for nothing
 
 FAITH 149 
 
 was I bred a Brahmin ! My first encounter with a 
 blue-blood — a gentleman of ancient lineage, as The 
 Times Literary Swpflement would say — happened 
 in a little market town in Leinster. I had gone there 
 after trout. At lunch-time (' luncheon,' as The 
 Daily Telegraph would say) I rushed into the coffee- 
 room, very hungry. At the table a revolting sight 
 halted me. Seated there was something in the 
 semblance of a man. His eyes looked vacantly 
 at me, scarcely comprehending my presence. His 
 right arm was paralyzed. With his left hand he 
 ladled soup into his mouth with disastrous results 
 to shirt, waistcoat, and tablecloth. I went out into 
 the hall and called Micky, the general factotum and 
 ma or-domo. 
 
 " Micky,'' said I, "what's that thing ye've got in 
 there? " 
 
 " Why, sorr, it's the Earl of Ballydrum." 
 
 " A belted earl ! " said I. 
 
 "A great ould family hereabouts," said Micky. 
 
 " It's an idiot," said I. 
 
 " Mebbe, sorr, it's oncharitable to call him an 
 idjut. It's like this : he's paralyzed down wan side ; 
 he's ippihptic down the other ; he has a thrifle of 
 wather on the brain, and lashin's of liquor on his 
 stummick." 
 
 Is it an idle divagation to discuss breeding with 
 religion ? I am not siure if they are not the obverse 
 and reverse of the same coin.* Might we not definitely 
 assert that religion is a vain thing, unless it leads to 
 clean breeding ? For how can we be clean bred 
 unless our people lead clean lives ? And how can 
 they lead clean lives unless they think clean thoughts?
 
 150 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 As we think, so, in the ultimate, do we Hve. It is 
 the beginning and end of eugenics. Or, to put it in 
 another way, the test of rehgious truth is found, not 
 in logic, not in casuistry, but in conduct. I know, 
 of course, that the scientific theologian rejects with 
 scorn such an assertion. " What," he cries, " are 
 the petty comings and goings of the individual 
 compared with the eternal verities?" And he is 
 as good as hi^ word. " There are sins and sins," he 
 affirms, " some of great gravity because they touch 
 doctrine, and others, touching only conduct, are 
 venial." Thus, if you hold fast to some central 
 truth, a thousand venial sins may be all forgiven. 
 Apart from the obvious criticism that a central truth 
 that winks at a multitude of venial sins is probably 
 neither central nor true, I would advise you to look 
 closely to your venial sins and let the central truths 
 establish themselves in your mind and heart as and 
 when they will. Look after the pence and the pounds 
 will take care of themselves. To come back to my 
 point, think cleanly and you will live cleanly. 
 
 Although I have never fashed myself about 
 theology, on looking back I now see that I could 
 never subordinate reason to faith. St Anselm 
 describes philosophy as ancilla fidei. " When we 
 have arrived at Faith," he says, "it is a piece of 
 negligence to stop short of convincing ourselves, by 
 the aid of Thought, of that to which we have given 
 credence." I prefer thought first with credence as 
 the sequel. Why not ? But that throws me back 
 on the elementary question : What is thought ? It 
 is odd, when you come to think of it, that it is easier 
 to define faith than thought. I shall not attempt to
 
 FAITH 151 
 
 define them. Why should I ? This is only a letter 
 from your old uncle on the shelf. But you might do 
 worse than make it your thesis for M.A. Mon Dieu ! 
 What a theme ! To trace the gradual opening of 
 mankind's eye from the eariiest gleams of intelli- 
 gence ; to throw the modern mind, with modern 
 revelations, upon the ancient gropings ; to open out 
 history's cerebral system ; to weigh, judge, test, 
 and appreciate the concepts of the wise men of the 
 past — Thales of Miletus, Anaximander, Anaximenes, 
 Pythagoras, Heraclitus, Xenophanes, Parmenides, 
 Zeno of Elea, Empedocles, and so down the corridors 
 of time, each with its own peculiar echo ; to tell us 
 how and why the thinker and the priest gradually 
 went their different ways. 
 
 The point I would urge upon you is that human 
 thought is not yet ' pure ' ; still awaits its supreme 
 moment of emancipation ; has yet to develop new 
 methods and discover new canons. If I tell the 
 theologian that I will not subordinate my freedom 
 of thought to his dogmatic assertions, he can retort 
 upon me that my methods of thought are crude, 
 sectional, limited ; that my intellectual horizon is 
 confined to material things. Can I deny, for ex- 
 ample, this assertion by Caird : "In all reHgious 
 experience there are involved feelings and acts which 
 are possible only to spiritual and intellectual beings, 
 which are grounded in certain necessary relations of 
 the human spirit to the Divine, and which, therefore, 
 do not arise accidentally, but in unconscious obedi- 
 ence to the hidden logic of a spiritual process " ? 
 What have I to say ? Beyond a reservation as to a 
 different concept of the Divine, I can only reply that
 
 152 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 the " hidden logic " remains as obscure to the priest 
 as to me ; that he is as effectually the prisoner of 
 existing methods of thought as I am. This may be 
 good or bad polemics (bad, I think) ; it is certainly 
 not particularly helpful. For neither you nor I cared 
 one jot for the victory of dogmatist or rationalist; 
 we want to know that our souls may be satisfied. 
 
 If you will forgive me, on the ground that I am an 
 amateur, I suggest that we have not as yet the right 
 vocabulary. Is a vocabulary the effect or the cause 
 of thought ? The effect, I presume. If, then, we 
 have not a vocabulary subtle and responsive enough 
 to deal with the eternal mysteries, it implies that our 
 thought remains inadequate, " does not rise above 
 those external and accidental relations which belong 
 to the sphere of the finite." Swedenborg, before his 
 conversion, knew this ; he affirmed the existence of 
 a knowledge beyond our conscious intelligence, a shy 
 visitant to the " secret and sacred sanctuary " of the 
 subconscious. Croce seems to me to be the only 
 modern thinker who bridges the chasm. He has 
 taught us that speculation in the realm of the spirit 
 is not less ' practical ' than an examination of the 
 material ; that the one merges into the other. 
 
 Now see where I have led you ? How do these 
 abstract considerations help you in your struggle to 
 Mve a sane and fruitful life ? If you follow them up, 
 they at least keep you out of mischief. Parbleu ! 
 But it is clear to me that the practice of religion must 
 be based on some simple yet strong foundation. 
 " This one thing I know " was the triumphant cry 
 of an early disciple. What did he care for logical 
 piceties, for historical proofs, for angels dancing on
 
 FAITH 153 
 
 the point of a pin ? Not a damn ! He knew (or 
 thought he knew) something that was hidden from 
 the wise and prudent. It gave him inspiration and 
 driving force. His " one thing " need not be yours ; 
 but two questions will come to you : What are you 
 going to do with your life ? and Under the force 
 majeure of what spirit will you live ? A good deed 
 done in a bad spirit were ill done. In these later days 
 we have wrested that beautiful word ' spiritual ' 
 from its obscurantist context. In the true sense of 
 the word your Hfe must be tested by its spiritual 
 implications. An ardent devotion to theological or 
 philosophical hair-spHtting won't save you. 
 
 Do you know, when I started this letter I had no 
 intention of touching theology, even remotely. But 
 I had barely begun before a young Roman fadre, 
 tired and footsore, came to break bread with me and 
 engage my interest, or at least my goodwill, in a 
 mission on the Estate. Ingenuous boy ! Behind 
 him I saw his bishop, a Jesuit, by special dispensation 
 bishop in partibus. Behind him I saw the Arch- 
 bishop of Guatemala, a cunning cleric, grasping at 
 the remnants of temporal power. Behind him I saw 
 the Pope, delicately poising his interests in Austria, 
 in Belgium, his moral weight in the civihzed world 
 and his political preoccupations in Italy. Then 
 suddenly I reahzed that this vast organization must 
 be built up on something, and so my memory 
 wandered back into that thrilHng story of endless 
 inquiry into the nature and attributes of God, with 
 the concurrent struggle of Thought to cut loose from 
 triumphant obscurantism. Nor did I forget that 
 your great-grandfather and his father before him
 
 154 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 went to jail for bearing their share in the struggle. 
 I recognized in this young priest an agent of a great 
 organization, whose raison d'etre formally, if not 
 actually, is the assumption of a special knowledge of 
 that " hidden logic " — a knowledge so certain that 
 when proclaimed ex cathedra is final and infaUible. 
 Then a spasm of jealousy shot through me. What if 
 you, my nephew, were to 'vert ? The notion seemed 
 as horrible as a nice girl mating with a vicious man. 
 And that is how I dropped into theology. 
 
 I am naturally immensely interested in your 
 thoughts ; but I am most deeply concerned about 
 your conduct. So far as thought influences conduct 
 I pray that your thought shall never be paralysed by 
 vague abstractions ; that you shall, at least, know 
 "one thing," and, knowing it, jump into the battle, 
 in the fullness of time scaHng the flaming ramparts. 
 Conduct is achievement. Take your time, measure 
 the ground, then draw your sword and smite the 
 enemies of the Lord. 
 
 But don't wear ' the long robe ' in your home 
 circle ! 
 
 Your affectionate uncle, 
 
 Anthony Farley.
 
 XVI: RELIGION 
 
 My dear George, 
 
 You seem to be surprised that a man of the 
 world like me should betray any strong feeling upon 
 affairs of the soul in general and orthodoxy in parti- 
 cular. I hope you are not confusing a man of the 
 world with that social pest ' the man about town.' If, 
 by chance, you have done so, you have paid me a poor 
 compliment. The man about town is really a denizen 
 of the underworld, vicious when not vacuous, stupid 
 when not perverted. An odious type. But the 
 man of the world ! Suppose some Chinaman (why 
 do we always postulate the Chinaman as belonging 
 to another world ?) came over and took the term in 
 the precise meaning of its words, would he not in- 
 stantly be struck with the positive grandeur of the 
 title ? To refuse to have one's brains and feet 
 strapped tight with the thongs of sect or faction ; 
 to see with understanding (and, understanding, to 
 forgive or condemn) the world-movements ; to travel 
 without arrogance ; to read without bias ; to meet 
 men and women without prejudice : this were surely 
 no mean status to attain. But it by no means 
 precludes strong feeling and intensity of conviction. 
 For my part, I am not minded to be spewed out of 
 God's mouth for being neither hot nor cold. 
 
 It is not despite but because I am a man of the 
 world that I strongly resent any attempted usurpa- 
 tion of my spiritual rights by an outward authority 
 whose sanction is highly disputable. I prefer the 
 guidance of my own inner Hght. The more I see of 
 life the more am I impressed with the belief that to 
 
 155
 
 156 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 follow one's light, to fight for it, and, if needs must, 
 to die for it, is the only justifiable cause for war, I 
 am not even afraid of intolerance. There is a smooth 
 fellow out here whom I am ready to kill. He suffers 
 from excessive tolerance. From stray bits of con- 
 versation I can piece together his undistinguished 
 life. Born in a pietistic rather than a reUgious 
 family, he spent his young days between school 
 and Presbyterian observances. He early acquired 
 a reverence for the Sabbath, with a corresponding 
 disregard for spiritual things. Evidently a rather 
 good-looking boy and conscious of it, I can see him 
 quite early decked out in pretty clothes by an adoring 
 mother, who herself had thoughts of her own bonnet 
 when she ought to have been listening to the sermon. 
 At school, a sedate little sneak. His father puts him 
 to the law, and, in due course, he practises in one of 
 the West Indian islands. It is not difficult to trace 
 the growth of his mind. He soon discovers that the 
 realities of life are foreign to the Sunday seclusion of 
 public worship. Seclusion ! Yes ; for, although it 
 is public, it is nevertheless secluded from actual life. 
 It is, in its way, amateur theatricals, involving a 
 particular mode of dress and behaviour. I could 
 not imagine this fellow going to church unless all the 
 accessories are forthcoming — a respectable church 
 edifice, a fashionable, if not a popular, preacher, 
 and himself specially dressed for the occasion. Nor 
 would he dream of going unless women went also. 
 To him, worship is a formal affair, ike the holding 
 of assize, and barely remote from a decorously 
 conducted garden-party. His emotions are not 
 dissimilar in these varying circumstances — a certain
 
 RELIGION 157 
 
 exaltation, a feeling that all is right, that he too must 
 be right or he wouldn't be there. Gradually there 
 creeps over him a consciousness that he is a morally 
 superior person — that he is in the social and rehgious 
 swim — social and rehgious ; for he discovers (not 
 being exactly a fool) that his particular social milieu 
 makes the church its rendezvous and its defence. 
 He feels, rather than realizes, the part played by 
 women. Marriage is an integral part of the game ; 
 it is a social and religious factor in the economy of 
 the hfe lived by his respectable friends. He must 
 marry respectably. Meantime the law brings him 
 into touch with less reputable elements. Divorce, 
 bastardy, indecent assault and similar cases are 
 constant reminders that there is a world outside his 
 pietistic circle. He finds that there are men and 
 women ready to break the sex laws his Church would 
 impose, and, oddly enough, he regards them with a 
 certain envy. At the Club, too, he meets men who 
 laugh at his righteous pretensions. It is curious, 
 too, that these men stand higher in the regard of 
 the community than he does. It is very puzzling. 
 
 It is evidently an essential part of religion that 
 one should prosper. To prosper, the fellow finds it 
 prudent to ' keep in ' with these worldly men, who 
 decHne to be impressed by his apparent piety. So 
 he hints in the proper quarters that he is a veritable 
 Don Juan. His experiences in the law-courts have 
 taught him the sex jargon used by ' men about 
 town,' while various hotel episodes, real or invented, 
 are cited to prove to the heretics that he is no namby- 
 pamby. He fails to learn that decent men never 
 discuss their love affairs. Very soon his amatory
 
 158 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 reminiscences are smelt a mile away and he is 
 shunned, because he is a bore rather than a hypo- 
 crite. And, I regret to tell you, although his 
 phylacteries are of gentlemanly width, deluded 
 htigants prefer another lawyer, who, frank and 
 honest though he be, plays tennis or goes fishing on 
 Sunday. So the fellow applies for a magistracy in 
 the Colonial Service, and he is fobbed off on us. 
 
 Arrived here, he plays the same game. He attends 
 church twice on Sunday, and is soon on a committee 
 or two. Also he has added to his Don Juan repertoire. 
 All this does not annoy me ; I am hardly conscious 
 of it, until the local question arises : Shall we play 
 tennis at the Golf Club on Sundays ? Up to now 
 the unco' guid have kept the Club sabbatically sealed. 
 And our hypocritical stipendiary now joins them. 
 Those of us who have had to listen politely to his 
 amatory stories are first surprised, then annoyed, 
 then downright angry. 
 
 At this stage he invites himself down to the Estate. 
 On the boat he sidles up to me, says he knows I am 
 a man of the world, and (to cut his hesitating circum- 
 locution short) could I arrange an affair for him during 
 his visit ? I tell him with tolerable directness pre- 
 cisely what I think of him. Is he abashed ? Not he. 
 He repHes that no man is thoroughly consistent and 
 that in condemning him for the stand he takes on 
 Sunday tennis, combined with his natural disposition 
 for immorality, I am merely intolerant and do not 
 sufficiently take human nature into account. During 
 liis self-invited visit I am cold toward him. He 
 complains of it ; says I am prejudiced against 
 him because of that Sunday tennis dispute ; that
 
 RELIGION 159 
 
 I am the most intolerant man in the West 
 Indies. 
 
 I prefer your Quaker grandmother's intolerance to 
 this person's tolerance. About the time you were 
 born I lay in bed with death lurking near. Hot- 
 foot she came to me — her reckless and erring son. 
 When the battle ended in my favour she determined 
 that my days of convalescence should not pass with- 
 out warnings (given discreetly and in great love) as 
 to my eternal welfare. Very weak I was and glad 
 to lie back in the quiet of my room, the fire flashing 
 images on the ceihng. I can hear her voice, gentle 
 and insinuating : " What shall I read to thee, dear ? " 
 I knew that she was 'about her Master's business.' 
 " Artemus Ward," said I. " Remember, dear, thou 
 art not yet free from danger. Let it be something 
 less frivolous." "Anything you like," I smiled 
 back. She searched my shelves, finally returning 
 with Lacordaire's Sermons. Their charm carried 
 her away. On and on she read, forgetting me. 
 *' Who was he ? " she asked. " A CathoHc priest," 
 I answered. "How very, very dreadful! " she ex- 
 claimed. " What would thy father say if he knew ? " 
 " Let it be a guilty secret between us," I answered, 
 trying not to laugh — for laughing was painful and 
 dangerous. She put the book down, took off her 
 spectacles, busied herself about the room, and went 
 down to dinner. Afterward she returned and, 
 thinking I was asleep, picked up the forbidden book. 
 After a while I caught her eye, " Naughty ! " said 
 I. " Thou'rt quite sure he was a Roman priest ? " 
 she asked anxiously, " Well," said I, "he belonged 
 to the Gallic branch." "Ah!" said she, "that
 
 i6o LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 puts a totally different complexion on it." She went 
 on reading. A few weeks later she rose in Quaker 
 meeting and practically recited one of these sermons 
 which she had memorized. Not much given to 
 speech, but rather to deeds (as is every good home- 
 builder), the dear Friends listened to her entranced. 
 " A precious manifestation of the Holy Spirit " was 
 their verdict. 
 
 I humbly apologize to my mother's spirit if I have 
 soiled her memory by contrasting it with an amative 
 hypocrite. But perhaps in the contrast we may 
 discover some understanding of a clean religion. I 
 again suggest that what really counts is conduct ; 
 beyond that, theology really merges into or is sub- 
 merged by ph losophy. It is in conduct that a proper 
 intolerance expresses itself. Contrary to the general 
 opinion, intolerance may be coloured with humour. 
 And who knows that better than we Irishmen ? 
 Down in a little Kerry village there lived, a few years 
 ago, a Catholic priest and an Episcopahan rector. 
 They never feared to fight each other ; each was 
 always true to his ' faith,' but in private they were 
 inseparable cronies. One night the rector had eaten 
 dinner and spent the usual pleasant hours at the 
 Catholic vicarage. " It's time to go," he said re- 
 luctantly. " Man, ye can't go in this rain ; have 
 another tot." So he stayed on. And the rain 
 rained on. " Ye'll just have to share my bed with 
 me," said the priest. So they went upstairs, un- 
 dressed, and both knelt down to pray, one on each 
 side of the bed. Each prayed on, waiting for the 
 other to rise. Neither would rise before the other. 
 Thus for an hour or more did the praying proceed,
 
 RELIGION i6i 
 
 each looking at the other through the tail of his eye. 
 Finally, both fell on the floor, too sleepy and ex- 
 hausted to continue the contest. And there they 
 slept until the priest's housekeeper discovered them 
 next morning. " Ye'U stay and have breakfast, ye 
 stiff-necked heretic," said the priest. " Indeed and 
 I won't, ye poor deluded child of Babylon ; I'm going 
 to take ye along this instant to the Rectory and it's 
 a grand breakfast we'll have." As they walked, the 
 priest suggested that " mebbe " he'd been praying 
 all night by a sick-bed. " Easy for you to tell your 
 flock that, but what would I be doing all night when 
 there's nobody would call f or me ? " " Sure," said 
 the priest, " didn't I call ye out to witness the dying 
 man's will ? " But the priest's housekeeper was 
 garrulous and the story leaked out. Neither priest 
 nor rector was dismayed. When chaffed about it, 
 the priest asked if he was the man to yield in prayer 
 to a Protestant " blagyard." The rector, in his 
 turn, asserted that when it came to praying he 
 wouldn't yield by the tenth of a second to a Papist 
 ruffian. 
 
 A propos de rien — I'm writing a letter and not a 
 treatise — I like another priest and rector story, this 
 time from Tipperary. The priest, meeting the rector, 
 remarked : " Ye're not looking your usual cheery 
 self." " Nor feeling it," said the rector. " What's 
 wrong ? " asked the priest. " To-morrow week my 
 bishop makes a visitation," answered the rector. 
 " Wlien my bishop comes along," said the priest, " I 
 always give him a chicken, with the bacon done to 
 a turn." " It's a good idea and I'll act on it ; but, 
 man dear, that's not the trouble. He'll preach a
 
 i62 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 sermon and the congregation will be composed of 
 my wife, myself, our three children, the governess, 
 the nurse, and the sexton." " You look after the 
 chicken and I'll attend to the congregation," said 
 the priest. Next morning, being Sunday, the priest 
 addressed his people thus : " Next Sunday, at eleven 
 o'clock, I want every faithful member of my flock 
 to attend the EpiscopaHan Church across the way. 
 Anybody disregarding what I say will he liable to ex- 
 communication." On the Monday morning after 
 his visitation the Protestant bishop said to the 
 rector : "I must say the size of the congregation was 
 most surprising and gratifying." "I'm glad your 
 lordship's pleased," said the rector. 
 
 He gho ! I'm getting into my anecdotage, when I 
 really intended to write to you about religion. The 
 truth is, I do not know how to put my thoughts into 
 words. I want you to be fundamentally a religious 
 man ; but I know with certainty that the truths, 
 intuitions, and motives that moved my generation 
 will not appeal to yours ; or, at least, will appeal with 
 varying stresses. After all, is not the religious life 
 a fine and delicately balanced form of good taste ? 
 Is it not the sum-total of your spiritual and intellec- 
 tual beliefs and apperceptions expressing themselves 
 in your life and conversation ? Yes, if you read 
 my meaning into the term ' good taste,' you won't 
 go far wrong, even though we know not, and may 
 never know, any arbiter elegantiarum in the realms 
 of the spirit. I have often wondered why Matthew 
 Arnold did not hit upon this idea. Surely he, if 
 anybody, who both saw and felt an ' abiding spirit ' 
 behind the blind horrors and insensate cruelties of
 
 RELIGION 163 
 
 the society of his day, might have realized that Church 
 organization, based so largely on sheer casuistry, 
 could be as cruel and unrelenting as the industrial 
 organization which he taught my generation to hate. 
 Yet he joined the PhiUstines and did his share in 
 hounding Colenso, who, you may remember, bluntly 
 declared against the literal inspiration of the Bible. 
 How very remote do his words read to-day ! "In 
 writing the story of the Exodus from the ancient 
 legends of his people, the Scripture writer may have 
 had no more consciousness of doing wrong, or of 
 practising historical deception, than Homer had or 
 any of the Roman annahsts." What was Arnold's 
 criticism of this now universally accepted fact ? 
 " Theological criticism censures this language as un- 
 orthodox, irreverent : literary criticism censures it 
 as false." This fine critic (what a debt we owe him !) 
 could not see that the religious life was beautified 
 and not injured by intellectual honesty. To Arnold, 
 pure thought must be divorced from the emotional 
 life of religion. He cites Spinoza, who wrote very 
 much what Colenso wrote : " The Bible contains 
 much that is mere history, and, hke all history, some- 
 times true, sometimes false." What is Arnold's 
 comment ? " We must bear in mind that Spinoza 
 did not promulgate this thesis in immediate con- 
 nexion with the religious life of his times [he was not 
 such a fool], but as a speculative idea : he uttered it, 
 not as a rehgious teacher, but as an independent 
 philosopher ; and he left it, as Galileo left his, to 
 filter down gradually (if true) into the common thought 
 of mankind, and to adjust itself, through other 
 agency than his, to their rehgious Hfe." Very good ;
 
 i64 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 this " speculative idea " did " filter down," finally to 
 adjust itself in the mind of Colenso, with dynamic 
 results. Was Arnold glad that the truth had at 
 long last filtered down and adjusted itself ? Listen 
 again to him : " The Bishop of Natal does not speak 
 as an independent philosopher, as a pure thinker ; 
 if he did and if he spoke with power in this capacity, 
 literary criticism would have no right to condemn him. 
 But he speaks actually and avowedly, as by virtue 
 of his office he was almost inevitably constrained to 
 speak, as a religious teacher to the religious world." 
 I think I am content to rest my argument (such as 
 it is) upon the implications of this old, far-off, for- 
 gotten controversy. It is as true to-day as then that 
 mankind hates to have the basis of its emotions 
 shattered by a bomb charged with palpable truth. 
 But great emotions are only possible when informed 
 with truth, whether it be philosophic, scientific, or 
 historical. I should not like to think, as I passed 
 from your ken, that you had followed Arnold's plan 
 and kept your emotional life carefully untouched by 
 modern truth as though it were an unclean thing. 
 Nevertheless, in my own untutored way, I gather 
 hope, and even inspiration, from the belief that were 
 there any Arnolds living to-day (I know of none) 
 they would see, what they could not see in the mid- 
 Victorian period, that pure thought and pure religion 
 are neither divorced nor quarrelsome. 
 Your affectionate uncle, 
 
 Anthony Farley.
 
 XVII : LOVE AND HOME-BUILDING 
 
 My dear George, 
 
 Sitting here solitary, and perhaps a Httle 
 sentimental (a malaise not unknown to men of my 
 age), the memory came to me of that very nice girl 
 whom you brought in to tea a few months ago. You 
 looked to me an attractive couple. I do not think 
 that either of you had ' serious intentions,' as they 
 put it in certain circles ; but I shouldn't have objected 
 if you had. Love, Hke religion, inevitably comes to 
 us, and there is no reason why we should not frankly 
 face what is involved in sex-love. Judging by the 
 vast mass of novels perpetrated in Great Britain and 
 America, it seems as though love-making is the chief 
 preoccupation of the English-speaking races. It all 
 depends upon how we regard love, whether this is 
 good or bad. In the narrow sense of the word — the 
 immediate relations between a man and a woman — 
 I confess it wearies me. Deeply interested though I 
 am in everything you do, for heaven's sake, don't 
 relate to me the endless ins and outs of your court- 
 ship. Not only does it fail to interest me, but it is 
 no business of mine. It will probably pique the 
 curiosity of some old maids, but healthy folk are only 
 concerned with the result. The plain issue is whether 
 you are marrying for companionship or to build a 
 home. I mean by companionship the enjoyment 
 of each other's company without a family. You are 
 well within your rights in pursuing this course — ^it 
 depends on temperament and psychology — but the 
 community is deeply concerned when you present it 
 with a family. 
 
 165
 
 i66 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 I am willing to wager that, if your wife be healthy 
 in mind and body, she will choose the family. To 
 her, the nest is for her young. Making ample allow- 
 ance for women with some absorbing vocation — 
 literature, art, religion — the overwhelming majority 
 of women are primarily mothers, and lovers only 
 that they may become mothers. Any mental pro- 
 cess that they may experience in this regard is not 
 conscious, but subconscious. They instinctively 
 know that home, and all that is involved in the word, 
 is their heritage and their function. I cannot con- 
 ceive why so many ' modern ' women revolt at their 
 destiny. Perhaps it is because industrial and social 
 developments have perverted their energies and 
 rendered them incompetent. Did you see an extra- 
 ordinary manifesto issued last year by the Fabian 
 women ? They proclaimed a propaganda to drive 
 married women out of their homes and positively 
 compel them to work in factories. Childbirth was 
 to be a mere incident in a woman's life ; the great 
 thing was to work for a wage. An odd affair ! These 
 foolish virgins belong to a society whose supposed 
 object is to abolish the industrial system. Proceed- 
 ing apparently on the principle of a hair of the dog 
 that bit them, they seriously proposed thoroughly to 
 industrialize those women whose menfolk are already 
 under the harrow. Probably that was the silliest 
 thing ever written by any of the innumerable groups 
 of ' advanced ' women. The great event of a 
 woman's life is contemptuously brushed aside as 
 an ' incident ' ; the child is to be bundled off to 
 a creche. I wonder what your mother would have 
 thought of it ! I did not see her for a month after
 
 LOVE AND HOME-BUILDING 167 
 
 you were born. Your coming nearly killed her, you 
 young rascal ; but ecstasy still shone round her fore- 
 head like an aureole. It was as though she had seen 
 God. If the surroundings are squalid, is the event 
 less beautiful, less memorable, to a working man's 
 wife ? I have seen young mothers in every stage of 
 civilization and savagery. Almost without excep- 
 tion, there is a joy in the knowledge of fertility ; but 
 it is reverenced as a miracle. The Fabian women 
 who wrote such diabolical heresy could not see that 
 industrialism had corroded their own souls, even as 
 it has despoiled their working sisters' bodies. And 
 let me add that unless we learn to reverence child- 
 birth, our course as a great nation is run. 
 
 Reverence for childbirth is, however, only the 
 beginning of wisdom. The child must be nurtured 
 and cultured and brought to maturity. Look at us 
 out here. We keep a gang of men constantly clean- 
 ing and thinning our coco-nut walk, so that we may 
 bring the coco-nuts to fruition. The overseer is 
 always on the qui vive for destructive insects or for 
 overcrowding. Three times every year we clean and 
 prune our thousand acres of bananas. We watch 
 anxiously for disease ; we closely examine the soil 
 lest it grow sour for want of proper draining. Is a 
 child's life less important than vegetables or fruit ? 
 Not less important, but less capable of immediate 
 exploitation for profit. And so we are apt to let it 
 grow up like Topsy. Industrialism suggests that the 
 child can wait for proper attention. Meantime the 
 mills must be kept going. Call out the women ! 
 And, just now, why not the children ? I answer — 
 am I an old fogey ? — that now more than ever ought
 
 i68 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 the women to throw aside every consideration and 
 become skilled home-builders. They must build as 
 they never built before. The gaps to be filled ! 
 
 Compute, if you can, the social — the economic — 
 loss suffered by Great Britain, during the past thirty 
 years, by the diversion from their real work of 
 thousands of women who have been stung by the 
 po'itical gadfly. The worst of it is that these 
 women have posed the question falsely. They have 
 said to the men : " Do you want good and intelligent 
 wives ? " Of course the men promptly answer in 
 the affirmative, with a mental reservation as to 
 beauty. " Then vote for ' Votes for Women ' " comes 
 the irrelevant rejoinder. What the political vote 
 has got to do with domestic competence and feminine 
 intelhgence has never yet been disclosed. But the 
 question, put in this form, implies that men who do 
 not fash themselves about the vote are logically 
 indifferent to the domestic virtues. " Yah ! You 
 want a doll for a wife," I once heard a suffragette 
 exclaim. The man was generous and refrained from 
 the obvious retort. The true position was put with 
 epigrammatic point some years ago by a friend. 
 " Man," said he, " exploits Nature ; woman exploits 
 man." He might have added that the child exploits 
 the woman. It is when woman competes with man 
 in exploiting Nature, and claims citizenship on the 
 strength of it, that sensible men politely but firmly 
 tell the women to get back to their proper work. 
 And, if you think of it, the vote has precious little 
 to do with it. For a very simple reason : politics 
 mainly reflects economic conditions. Women have 
 at present no economic standing. When they have
 
 LOVE AND HOME-BUILDING 169 
 
 transformed the nation's home life into a great 
 science and art ; when they have made the home 
 truly the Englishman's castle ; when they help men 
 to abolish the wage-system, instead of pushing the 
 men more deeply into its mire (by competing with 
 them for lower wages) ; then, and not before, will 
 they have acquired that economic power that ensures 
 them the vote. 
 
 Forgive me ! I really intended writing you an 
 avuncular letter on love-making and home-building, 
 and, instead, here I am, up to my neck in a dis- 
 cussion on the eternal woman question. Drat it ! 
 Do you find me a bore ? 
 
 A confession. When I wrote that woman is 
 primarily a mother, although it is a true generahza- 
 tion, I was really thinking of Mary Armstrong. 
 Mary was a wel -developed, full-busted negress, 
 hving an innocent and useful Hfe in the little settle- 
 ment of Stann Creek, not far from the Estate. Every- 
 body Hked and respected her. She had early learnt 
 to read and write at the Wesleyan Mission, where 
 they also taught her to use the needle, to cut out 
 patterns and make dresses. At about the age of 
 eighteen she ' found religion.' One of a subject 
 race, floundering in mental darkness as black as its 
 skin, some chord in her nature responded to the cry 
 that the meek shall inherit the earth ; that she was 
 blessed when men should revile her and say all 
 manner of evil things about her ; that poor, and 
 neglected by the ruHng caste, did she but believe, she 
 would, beyond the grave, see God. The vision of 
 the crucified Christ, emblem of sorrowing humanity 
 (she knew how cruel were those set above her),
 
 170 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 lightened her daily burden. So she sang hjonns 
 and went on her way rejoicing. Like Theocrite, 
 " Morning, noon and night, praise God," said 
 Mary. 
 
 Mary was general domestic factotum for Mariano, 
 a half-caste trader. She cooked the meals, tidied 
 the rooms, and nursed her master's children, three 
 of them ' lawfully begotten ' and three of them 
 'natural.' She was particularly tender to the 
 ' naturals.' Not only were they the youngest, but 
 the minister had once reminded her, when speaking 
 of them : " Inasmuch as ye did it to one of these ..." 
 She was dutiful to her master, being nearly always 
 at his beck and call. But on one point she was 
 adamant : she would obey her Church and attend 
 regularly all its services : Sunday morning, Sunday 
 school in the afternoon, evening service, a prayer 
 meeting on Wednesday evening, when they would 
 implore ' the Great Jehovah ' to fit them for those 
 promised mansions in the skies. I once looked in 
 through the \vindow at one of these prayer meetings. 
 They were all coloured except the minister and his 
 wife. He had been a cotton operative in Lancashire, 
 and, like Mary, had early 'found salvation.' So he 
 became a total abstainer, attended evening classes, 
 ' felt the call to the ministry,' had been sent to a 
 theological seminary, and finally volunteered for the 
 ' foreign field.' His wife had also been a cotton 
 operative, and the marks of it remained. Petite, 
 pale, thin to emaciation, colourless eyes, nostrils 
 fine-drawn, anxious hps that disclosed a cheap set of 
 artificial teeth, I saw her, at a sign from her husband, 
 rise from her knees and sit at the harmoniimi. Thus
 
 LOVE AND HOME-BUILDING 171 
 
 it had come about that these two ex-wage-serfs had 
 found communion and joint hope of a glorious here- 
 after with Mary's subject race. Negroes wiU not 
 worship without singing, so the prayers were inter- 
 spersed with hymns. Gradually, they would work 
 themselves into a condition of emotional tenseness, 
 not easily to be distinguished from inebriation. Mary 
 would walk home with nerves tinghng, her body 
 shaken with vague longings. She felt that her own 
 life was inadequate, incomplete. Something within 
 her called for the fulfilment of her destiny. 
 
 Mariano gave Mary her food and paid her eight 
 gold dollars a month. Out of her early savings she 
 had bought a sewing-machine, and in her spare 
 moments she made not only her own clothes, but 
 dresses for other women and pyjamas and under- 
 garments for the men. Very often, w^hen dehvering 
 these, her men customers would make lewd jokes. 
 They made her feel uncomfortable, but in no wise 
 disturbed her. She would take her money and go. 
 Sometimes she would tell the minister's wife, upon 
 whom these jokes had a strange effect. Tears w^ould 
 come, with enticing memories of Stalybridge. In 
 time, Mary had saved about one hundred and fifty 
 dollars, which the minister kept for her in his safe. 
 Then came Mary's deluge. Her father died, leaving 
 her another hundred dollars, two sailing dorys, and 
 a plot of building land. The minister managed the 
 business for her, and, after taking stock and counting 
 the money in the safe, told her she was worth four 
 hundred dollars. That was the beginning of the 
 deluge. Then Mary made her long-deferred dis- 
 covery. Coming back from the prayer meeting, in
 
 172 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 a mood of exaltation, she found one of Mariano's 
 children swinging in a hammock, delirious with 
 fever. She lifted the child, hugged it, bathed its 
 forehead with bay rum, crooned over it, finally 
 soothing it to sleep with a lullaby that seemed to 
 trail off into a slowly intoned anthem. Then, quite 
 suddenly, Mary became jealous of the morrow, for 
 the child would be well again and she would not 
 be able to hug it warm and close. She now knew 
 that she wanted a child of her own, suckling at her 
 breast. 
 
 Fate plays cruel tricks with simple-hearted women. 
 Alonzo Perez came up from Punta Gorda on a visit. 
 Sly, voluble, experienced with women, and, in conse- 
 quence, persuasive, he quickly discovered how desir- 
 able Mary was. So he went with her to chapel, kept 
 near to her, told her of his httle plantain patch, with 
 the cottage that needed raising and a floor put in, 
 told her of a httle coco-nut walk that two hundred 
 dollars would buy, with sighs complained of his 
 lonehness and how he wanted a wife and family. 
 The courtship is easy ; Mary's wishes chime with 
 Alonzo's ; she falls into his arms. They agree to 
 proceed to Behze in a month ; to be married there ; 
 to buy certain furniture and complete the purchase 
 of the coco-nut walk at the lawyer's. Then Alonzo 
 returns south to Punta Gorda and Mary's sewing- 
 machine and needle are kept feverishly busy. 
 
 The day appointed draws close. Mary has already 
 bought her wedding-ring. She has a long gold chain. 
 She passes it through the ring and attaches it to her 
 leather purse containing her money. She bids good- 
 bye to Mariano's children, the minister gives her a
 
 LOVE AND HOME-BUILDING 173 
 
 Bible, his wife gives her a silk kerchief, Mariano 
 (rather ungraciously) five dollars. With the chain 
 firmly clasped at the back of her neck, the ring and 
 purse, as she fondly imagines, safe, Mary steps into 
 the dory and is rowed out to the schooner El Anno, 
 which awaits impatiently beyond the bar. Other 
 passengers are already aboard (the fare is fifty cents) ; 
 only Mary and Mordecai Taylor, a negro who also 
 attends the Wesleyan Chapel, with his inseparable 
 concertina, remain. They get aboard ; there is a 
 rustling of ropes ; the anchor chain clangs round the 
 winch ; the sails are hoisted, mains'l, fores'l, finally 
 jib and flying jib. The water swishes past, the boat 
 gracefully yields to the breeze, Stann Creek sinks 
 away into a blue haze. Mordecai notices that the 
 captain and his three ' boys ' are stupid with drink. 
 But he fears nothing, for it is a fair wind. His fingers 
 idle over the keys of his concertina. Then he plays 
 a tune, half apologetically. Mary, seated beside him, 
 taps her feet, keeping time ; Mordecai, with growing 
 confidence, plays louder ; dark faces look round, 
 nodding their pleasure. Trained to hymn-singing 
 from childhood, the negroes know instinctively every 
 ' appropriate ' hymn. We are on the water ; let 
 us sing something with water in it. Come, Mary, 
 what shall we sing ? She thinks for a moment, 
 then, piano : 
 
 " Jesu, Lover of my soul, 
 
 Let me to Thy bosom fly, 
 While the gathering waters roll, 
 While the tempest still is high." 
 
 Mordecai's concertina catches her up, giving tone and
 
 174 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 body, as Mary, now full-chested, sings as though at 
 the prayer meeting : 
 
 " Hide me, O my Saviour, hide. 
 Till the storm of life be past : 
 Safe into the haven guide, 
 O receive my soul at last ! " 
 
 The others crowd round the concertina and join in, 
 the men improvising the bass. For two hours they 
 sing their hymns and songs. The wind veers a trifle 
 uncertainly. The sails flap. Mordecai feels uneasy. 
 About a mile to the stern he sees a yawl-rigged boat 
 coming up quickly. He nudges Mary and points it 
 out. It is surely the Gull Wing from Punta Gorda. 
 Mary laughs and wonders whether she or Alonzo will 
 reach BeHze first. But while the El Armo's sails 
 flap and the boat loses pace, the Gull Wing tacks out 
 to the east. Mordecai looks anxiously at the captain, 
 who, seated in the stern, handles the tiller absent- 
 mindedly. 
 
 It is five o'clock ; the sun ought to be splashing its 
 gold over the tops of the Manitee Mountains. There 
 is no sun visible. A chill creeps over the lightly 
 clad passengers, who shiver, and, ceasing their sing- 
 ing, lapse into churlish silence. Cheer up ! At this 
 time of the year nothing ever happens. 
 
 The next few minutes seem ominous to the super- 
 sensitive Mordecai. The boat no longer travels ; it 
 buckets about in the waves. What is wrong ? 
 Look ! From the north-east the clouds scurry as 
 though bent on some urgent errand. They seem to 
 be carrying a message for somebody on board. Look ! 
 From the north-west the clouds are scudding with
 
 LOVE AND HOME-BUILDING 175 
 
 desperate haste. They too would seem to have the 
 boat in view. Look ! From the east the white 
 horses are galloping, spurred by impatient riders. 
 Look ! From the west the waves rise and fall in 
 uneven undulations, like white-turbaned Cossacks 
 careering over the steppes. Look ! The captain, 
 gin-sodden, is in mental hypnosis, tongue-tied and 
 helpless. He vacuously moves the tiller of an 
 unresponsive rudder. Look ! His ' boys ' lie in 
 drunken stupor on the poop. The clouds converge ; 
 soon the boat will be churned in waves that clash for 
 mastery. There is a fateful silence in the air ; there 
 is, for a brief moment, an uncanny stabihty on the 
 boat. Passengers and crew sit mesmerized. Then 
 the warring winds and waves meet. It is a whirl- 
 wind — a monstrous aerial maelstrom. Mordecai's 
 concertina drops disconsolate on the deck. Mary 
 grasps his arm. A child cries out piteously. Sails 
 continuously flap ; the cordage whistles and rustles. 
 The waves, in fury, leap over both decks. From the 
 shore comes a long measured moan — the fabled 
 funeral keen of giants. Then a cloud opens and a 
 great black hand is thrust down out of the heavens. 
 It seizes the boat as if it were a toy. The sails are 
 ripped to shreds ; the mainmast creaks, cracks, and 
 drops overboard, not free from the ship but held to 
 it by ropes, as a severed limb remains attached to 
 the body by bleeding ligatures. Quicker than I can 
 tell it, the remorseless black hand pushes the boat 
 down into the sea. The waters rush nto cabin 
 and hold. The foremast signals a miserable farewell 
 and disappears. The great black hand dissipates 
 itself into dark puffs of moisture, vaporizing like
 
 176 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 Mephistopheles to a ribald and snarling chorus. The 
 north-easter has conquered ; it sweeps victoriously 
 over the wreckage. 
 
 With mains'l down, its jib and sterns'l close- 
 hauled, the Gull Wing rushes up in a spanking 
 breeze. Two or three heads bob up and down, one 
 or two dory paddles and bits of clothing float near 
 the scene of the wreck. Three men lie flat on the 
 deck, edge themselves over, their left wrists held 
 firmly by the heavier men, ready with their right 
 hands to haul up any possible victim. Alonzo, being 
 hght and agile, hangs well over. He can just get 
 his hand and forearm into the water. Suddenly a 
 woman's woolly head comes to the surface. He grabs 
 at it. It is just out of his reach. His fingers touch 
 the crown of the head and slip down to the nape of 
 the neck. He feels the woman's slippery skin. He 
 sees something sparkle. He makes a final effort. 
 Useless ! All that happens is that the sparkling 
 thing, in some strange way, curls round his finger. 
 The boat with slow motion draws him away. The 
 chain, for such it is, is drawn with him. The woman's 
 head, with a horrible and sickening jerk, is dragged 
 down for ever. For an instant the chain Hngers 
 round her chin. The head shoots backward and the 
 chain is released. 
 
 They pull Alonzo back into the boat. For a 
 moment he is dazed and breathless. Then he looks 
 at the chain still curled round his forefinger. He 
 turns pale, gasping: " My God ! My God ! " He 
 looks vacantly at the chain, to which are secured 
 the wedding-ring and the purse. " God Almighty ! 
 Look ! It is Mary's ! " He sits on the cabin-poop.
 
 LOVE AND HOME-BUILDING 177 
 
 ejaculating strange oaths. They ply him with rum ; 
 in their untutored way they sympathize with him. 
 
 For the next four hours, while they tacked and 
 beat against a half head-wind, Alonzo sits alone. 
 He runs his hands down his legs to his knees ; he 
 chuckles and jibbers, sometimes breaking out into 
 a screeching laugh. His mates think that the event 
 has rendered him hysterical. At length they make 
 the wharf at Belize. " Never mind, Alonzo, my 
 lad," says the captain kindly ; " it will come out right 
 in the long run." " It sure will," chuckles Alonzo; 
 "yes, man, it sure will. I didn't want Mary; I 
 wanted her money. Nita is the girl for me. By 
 God ! I've got Mary's money and I can have Nita 
 without marrying her. Ha, ha ! Ha, ha, ha ! " 
 He stuffed the chain and purse into his pocket, 
 shouldered his 'patkey,' and strode down the gang- 
 plank. As he turned out of sight into the dimly lit 
 entrance those on board heard a sound like the 
 shrieking laugh of a wounded hyena escaped from 
 a snare. 
 
 If you ask me what has this story to do with love 
 and home-bui!ding, I can only reply that I'm hanged 
 if I know. But you shall not escape me ! Next 
 mail will bring you a fat epistle more germane to the 
 subject. 
 
 Your affectionate uncle, 
 
 Anthony Farley. 
 
 M
 
 XVIII : THE CHILD 
 
 My dear George, 
 
 In the business of home-building I am old- 
 fashioned enough to believe, eugenists and cynics 
 notwithstanding (eugenists are unconscious cynics), 
 that love is the foundation. I hope that modern 
 neurotic hterature has left you untouched, that you 
 are not tempted to experiment with love as you 
 would with your vegetable garden, but rather that 
 you would let your instincts have at least as much 
 free play as you would your imagination. Just as 
 you discipUne your imagination, however, thereby 
 strengthening and refining it, so too there comes a 
 certain spiritual refining of love, inevitable in your 
 culture and attitude. I suppose this is what the 
 Apostle meant when he urged his people not to be 
 unequally yoked together. Of course, you or any- 
 body else may make a mistake. If so, I can see no 
 reason why you should perpetuate it at the behest 
 of the priests, who, in marital affairs, are a danger 
 and a pest. I have a strong prejudice, too, against 
 the modern habit of obtruding one's sexual difficulties 
 and experiences upon others. Blessed is the domestic 
 union that has no public history. When I was 
 leaving the parental roof-tree your grandfather's 
 advice was simp'e and direct : " My son," said he, 
 " give not thy strength unto women." He meant it, 
 I think, in a narrow moral sense ; but it is capable of 
 a wisely wide interpretation. It may mean (and it 
 is my adv ce to you) : Do not let your sexuai life 
 divert or impede you in the business of life. I do 
 not really care greatly whether you are ridiculously 
 
 178
 
 THE CHILD 179 
 
 happy or reasonably unhappy in your relations with 
 women so long as you steadily pursue your work 
 and compass your career and ambitions. We must 
 recognize, to be sure, that, should your domestic ship 
 be driven on the rocks, a morbid public curiosity may 
 drown you. Parnell, for example : I happen to 
 know that his private Hfe was clean. I think that 
 Granville Barker must have had him in mind when 
 writing Waste. Personally, I know the charm of 
 women ; every healthy man does ; but if the work of 
 the world is to be carried on with verve and intelli- 
 gence, the sexes must have their several functions. 
 Woman's function is home-building. It is significant 
 that the science and art of home hfe have receded 
 into the background during these years when the 
 female suffragist and male suffragette have been on 
 the rampage. Please don't assume that I would go 
 back to the stuffy interiors of the Victorian period. 
 We want the windows of home life thrown open. I 
 like Whitman's picture of a great city where the 
 women walk in and out of the procession with 
 the men. But see to it that it be a procession to 
 the parks and not into the factories. 
 
 I wonder how many of your generation really know 
 anything about the making of a serenely ordered home 
 Hfe — the skill and training needful, the science of 
 food, the consummate art to evoke a sweet and stimu- 
 lating atmosphere ; the quick and appreciative 
 understanding of the aptitudes and foibles of each 
 individual member of the household, by no means 
 forgetting the servants, for domestic service ought 
 to be a vital part of our national economy. Ought 
 to be, but isn't ; and, because it isn't, women are not
 
 i8o LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 yet citizens. Prior to the war we witnessed a curious 
 phenomenon : a considerable group of women, with 
 a far-echoing Press claque, backed by sweaters and 
 Fabians, attempted a raid upon every department 
 of men's work. In effect, they contended that home 
 work was so neghgible that they could take it in their 
 hobbled stride, and, at the same time, work for wages 
 in factories. They did not care a straw that they 
 were reducing the standard of life. Indeed, they 
 gloried in it ; the Fabian women published a mani- 
 festo in which they proved that woman works for 
 less wages than man, and, in addition, is a disgraceful 
 slacker when it comes to joining the union that, 
 at desperate odds, maintains wages. During this 
 period there has been an unparalleled hunger among 
 working men for the sustenance of home-life. An 
 American novelist — Owen Wister — has been drawing 
 some comparisons. He was in Germany just before 
 the war broke out. He saw something of Germany's 
 home Ufe, of its serenity, of the physical and moral 
 strength it gave to the Fatherland. It's a bore, but 
 let me transcribe some of his impressions : " AU of 
 us were going about the country, among the gardens 
 and the farms, or across the p^ain through the fruit- 
 trees to little Freidberg on its hill — an old castle, a 
 steep village, a clean Teutonic gem, dropped perfect 
 out of the Middle Ages into the present, yet perfectly 
 keeping up with the present. Many of the peasants 
 in the plain, men and women, were of those who 
 brought their flowers and produce to sell in Nauheim 
 — humble people, poor in what you call worldly 
 goods, but seemingly very few of them poor in the 
 great essential possession. . . . Ten or twelve of us
 
 THE CHILD i8i 
 
 were acquaintances at home ; every one had been 
 struck with the contentment in the German face. 
 Contentment ! Among the old and young of both 
 sexes this was the dominating note, the great essential 
 possession. The question arose : What is the best 
 sign that a Government is doing well by its people — 
 is agreeing with its people, so to speak ? None of 
 us were quite so sure as we used to be that our 
 native formula, ' Of the people, by the people, for 
 the people,' is the universal ultimate truth." 
 
 With one disquieting exception, he notes a mas- 
 sive Teutonic polyphony of well-being. He falls in 
 love with Frankfurt-am-Main. It is " beautifully 
 governed." " These burghers, these Frankfurters, 
 seemed to be going about their business with a sort 
 of solid yet placid energy, well and deliberately aimed, 
 that would hit the mark at once without wasting 
 powder. It was very different and very superior to 
 the ill-arranged and hectic haste of New York and 
 Chicago ; here nobody seemed driven as though by 
 invisible furies — the German business-mind was not 
 out of breath." I need not quote all his eulogies ; 
 here is his conclusion : " Such was the splendour of 
 this empire as it unrolled before me through May and 
 June, 1914, that by contrast the state of its two great 
 neighbours, France and England, seemed distressing 
 and unenviable. Paris was shabby and incoherent ; 
 London full of unrest. Instead of Germany's order, 
 confusion prevailed in France ; instead of Germany's 
 placidity, disturbance prevailed in England ; and in 
 both France and England incompetence seemed the 
 chief note. The French face, alike in city or country, 
 was too often a face of worried sadness or revolt ;
 
 i82 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 men spoke of political scandals and dissensions petty 
 and unpatriotic in spirit, and a political trial, reveal- 
 ing depths of every sort of baseness and dishonour 
 [observe that it centred round a woman] filled the 
 papers ; while in England, besides discord of suffrage 
 and discord of labour, civil war seemed so imminent 
 that no one would have been surprised to hear of 
 it any day." That there is enough superficial think- 
 ing here to vitiate the main argument is obvious ; 
 but, when I come to think of it and compare my own 
 impressions of Germany with this writer's, I think 
 that German home-building accounts for much. 
 
 Now for that disquieting exception. On his way 
 to Frankfurt he is dehghted with the courtesy and 
 charm of the passengers, except those who are 
 coming from or going to Berhn. These are of a 
 " heavy, impenetrable rudeness — quite another breed 
 from the kindly Hessians of Frankfurt." Please 
 remember that. It seems irrelevant ; it is very 
 much to the point. Mr Wister's words are these : 
 " A single little sharp discord vibrated through all 
 this German harmony one day when I learned that 
 in the Empire more children committed suicide than 
 in any other country." I am 'eft wondering why this 
 should be a ' little ' discord. It is unspeakably 
 dreadful to me. But let our observer tell his own 
 story. At Frankfurt they are celebrating Gluck's 
 centennial. In the midst of it they remember the 
 children, these kindly Hessians. So they stage an 
 old opera, tuneful, full of boisterous, innocent comedy 
 and simple sentiment, for the youngsters. " Children 
 by threes and fours, and in little groups, were stream- 
 ing from every quarter, entering every door, tripping
 
 THE CHILD 183 
 
 up the wide, handsome stairs, filling all the seats — 
 boys and girls ; it was like the Pied Piper of Hamelin. 
 , . . The enthusiasm and the attention of these boys 
 and girls, with their clapping of hands and their 
 laughter, soon affected the spirits of the singers as 
 a radiant day in spring affected me. I envied the 
 happy parents who had their children round them ; 
 it was like some sort of wonderful April light." 
 That hardly sounds like suicide ; but I must hasten 
 to the sequel : "It was on the seventh day of June, 
 1914, that Frankfurt assembled her school-children 
 in the opera-house, to further their taste and 
 understanding of Germany's supreme national art. 
 Exactly eleven months later, on May 7, 1915, a 
 German torpedo sank the Lusitania ; and the cities 
 of the Rhine celebrated this also for their school- 
 children." Mr Wister sees a moral catastrophe : 
 " In that holiday we see the feast of Kultur, the 
 Teutonic climax. How came it to pass ? Is it the 
 same Germany who gave these two holidays to her 
 school-children ? The opera in Frankfurt, and this 
 orgy of barbaric blood-lust, guttural with the deep 
 basses of the fathers and shrill with the trebles of 
 their young ? Their young, to whom they teach one 
 day the gentle melodies of Lortzing, and to exult 
 in world-assassination on another ? " 
 
 Have we here no explanation of those child 
 suicides ? I think so. The Prussian machine, with 
 "heavy, impenetrable rudeness," has reached out 
 and grabbed those ch Idren ; with an eye on future 
 gun-fodder, it has bashed and battered and bent 
 their httle brains to its purpose. And the docile 
 German mothers have not been strong enough to resist.
 
 i84 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 Every good mother has something of the tigress in 
 her nature, particularly where her offspring are con- 
 cerned. The Prussian hand has brushed away the 
 unseen but real frontier, that spiritual web that 
 divides the child's world from ours ; it has dragged 
 the child mind into premature touch with our adult 
 realities ; it has put pen and pencil into a child's 
 hands that itched for toys, and destroyed the rapt 
 imagination that surrounds a child, at once its 
 defence and its incense ; yet these German women 
 have not instinctively seized their young, holding 
 them back from the grim mechanism ; they have not 
 even indignantly protested. Thus it has come about 
 that the German child, its head throbbing when its 
 legs should have been dancing, has gone into a 
 corner, like a wounded animal, and killed itself. 
 
 There is, then, an aspect of home-building not 
 lightly to be disregarded — the care and nurture of 
 the child. I affirm that those who have ears to 
 hear and eyes to see wiil agree that a child's mind is 
 God's most exquisite creation. I remember, about the 
 t'me that you were born, giving a lecture on educa- 
 tion A school teacher came to me afterward to 
 say that I had overlooked one important factor. 
 " What was it ? " I asked. " The innate cussedness 
 of the Engl'sh schoolboy," came the prompt reply. 
 Perhaps I had ; but now, in maturer years, I wonder 
 whether that innate cussedness isn't one of our 
 greatest possessions. I have repeatedly noticed 
 that the boy's refusal to assimilate certain kinds of 
 know edge is precisely the same instinct that warns 
 a monkey against poison. More ! During the past 
 quarter of a century I have observed, with pleasure
 
 THE CHILD 185 
 
 and amusement, that our educational system is 
 gradually yielding to that "innate cussedness " ; is 
 consciously or unconsciously, avoiding the Prussian 
 method of breaking it to pieces " with heavy, im- 
 penetrable rudeness." The result is that the little 
 beggar more or less goes merrily his own way, 
 does not lose his spirit and abandon, retains his 
 sense of humour, and assuredly does not commit 
 suicide. 
 
 I grant you that this is only one side of the shield. 
 Do not think that I am blind to other aspects, many 
 of them grave and sinister. But the end we seek is 
 not to be achieved by the Prussian method of in- 
 doctrinating and enforcing unquestioned obedience 
 and docil ty. Least of all do we want docile mothers, 
 who, without protest, send their children first into a 
 mechanized creche, next into a mechanized school, 
 and finally into a mechanized industrial life. How 
 can they prevent it ? By themselves graduating 
 into an altogether higher degree of home-building, 
 so that the}^ sha 1 know without doubt or hesitance 
 when home life is better and richer than school life. 
 If prison ]ife were made more attractive than civil 
 life many of us might conceivably drop in. Our 
 schools are worked on this principle ; they coax the 
 children to come in. There is nothing to brag about 
 in this. Is it not, indeed, a tragedy of sorts that our 
 school system depends upon outbidding our homes ? 
 Hard y a tragedy ; a tragi-comedy ; for if our home 
 standards outbid the school standards, the schools, 
 in their turn, must inevitably continue the competi- 
 tion. Behind the whole argument remains the 
 ultimate fact that a nation whose mothers cannot
 
 i86 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 protect their children cannot survive. Docile 
 mothers are at a discount. Let us have a touch of 
 the tigress. I should like a deputation of English 
 mothers to corral the Fabian women's group and 
 soundly box their ears. The sound would reverbe- 
 rate farther than Jenny Geddes's flying stool. 
 
 Do you remember your old playmate, Doreen 
 Bertram ? She has grown tall and lithe and 
 beautiful. You might do worse, you know ! When 
 she was a child, on a day I chanced to be dining 
 there, she rushed into the drawing-room, her eyes 
 dancing with excitement. " Mummy," she cried, 
 " I was out on the common and I saw a poor old 
 soldier. He had only one leg and his breast was 
 covered with medals. He was so tired. So I took 
 him by the hand and I helped him upstairs and told 
 him to lie on my bed and rest." "That was very 
 sweet of you," said her mother ; " and did you give 
 him anything to eat ? " " Oh, yes ; milk and cake 
 and pickles ; I got them from Nanny." " And 
 when he had rested did you help him downstairs 
 again ? " " No, poor man ; he died." At dinner 
 we discussed the child's story. An old maid, who 
 had specialized on education, took a severe view of 
 it, denounced it as rank falsehood and thought the 
 child should be punished. " Not a bit of it," said the 
 mother ; " the whole story was very real to Doreen. 
 I wish I could go back to the days when it would have 
 been real to me." " But she knew it wasn't true," 
 replied Miss Prunes and Prisms. " I'm not so sure," 
 said the mother ; "a child knows that its doll is 
 stuffed with sawdust — it may even see the sawdust 
 falling out — yet it fondly imagines it to be a living
 
 THE CHILD 187 
 
 baby. I wouldn't destroy the illusion for anything 
 you could give me." I think we all envied the little 
 girl her mother ! 
 
 Here, in the great solitudes, I vaguely remember 
 those educational controversies that shaped my own 
 and my generation's mind. They have left but 
 little impression. Most vividly do I remember Jules 
 Guyau, a French writer whose name seems to be 
 forgotten. Like the Germans, he knew the value of 
 music as an educative factor, but the point he most 
 strongly emphasized was the regenerative quahty of 
 suggestion. Suggest to a child that it is naughty ; 
 it ipso facto becomes so. Suggest, and keep on sug- 
 gesting, that it is capable of good and noble things ; 
 the miracle will surely be accomplished. Ay di mi ! 
 It's a long time ago ! Is it a whimsical theory ? 
 Even if I am a back number, I still bel eve in it. 
 
 I set out to advise you about love and home- 
 building and I have divagated into the subtleties of 
 child hfe. Never mind ; I'm coming to it ! Have I 
 been deadly dull — a veritable bore of a fusty and 
 musty uncle ? Forgive me. I was led into it by 
 the thought of those German child suicides. In the 
 whole gamut of human experience, is there anything 
 more genuinely terrible than a little child, hustled 
 and bustled by damned Prussianized pedagogues, 
 taking its own hfe ? Perhaps the most bitter memory 
 of Germany will be, not the bullets we have shot into 
 the quivering flesh of her docile sons, but the ideas she 
 has driven into us — particularly of what to avoid. 
 Your affectionate uncle, 
 
 Anthony Farley.
 
 XIX: MARRIAGE 
 
 My dear George, 
 
 Home-building demands continuity of life, 
 which in its turn demands continuity of sustenance. 
 You have often heard me swear roundly at the 
 present capitalist system (even though I may be 
 myself a capitalist). My main objection to it is that 
 it fails to give that continuity of sustenance that is 
 essential to sane and secure home-building. Capital- 
 ism is the most destructive domestic pest known to 
 history. - War may destroy its thousands, pestilence 
 its tens of thousands, but capitalism destroys millions 
 of homes, and, in the process, boasts of its civiHzing 
 mission. It also boasts of its vast aggregations of 
 wealth. Great Britain, France, Germany, America, 
 all are held up to our admiring gaze because of their 
 astound ng progress in the production and accumula- 
 tion of wealth. But we can only accept it if and 
 when the vast majority of our people live near the 
 average line of national income. If I own a business, 
 employing, say, five hundred men, I may accumulate 
 a million sterling in time, plus the value of my plant 
 and goodwill. The statistician comes along, tots it 
 all up, and proceeds to inform an admiring world 
 that here is a prosperous community. For in the 
 bank is a milhon sterling, while the plant is worth 
 half a million. This yields, says our statistician, an 
 average wealth of £1,500,000 divided by 501 — a 
 fraction under £3000 per capita. It is mischievous 
 nonsense, of course, but actually passes muster. 
 Assuming my capital yields five per cent., my 
 annual income is £75,000. Assuming that I pay 
 
 188
 
 MARRIAGE 189 
 
 my workmen an average of £70 a year, their 
 total is lyo muitiplied by 500 = £35,000. Our 
 statistician clumps the two figures together, £75,000 
 plus £35,000 = £110,000 — and divides it by 501. 
 "Splendid ! " he exclaims, " the average income of 
 this thriving community is a fraction under £220 
 a year." This statistical trick invariably imposes 
 upon the credulous pubhc, and particularly upon the 
 Labour leaders, who rub their hands with invisible 
 soap as they solemnly ponder it. If the great bulk 
 of Englishmen are serious about their home-building 
 they will see to it that this is a real and not a statis- 
 tical average. The only way known to me to do it 
 is to adopt some modern form of guild organization. 
 The humiliating condition of affairs in Great 
 Britain, and indeed in all the industrial countries 
 alike, whereby secure home-building is rendered a 
 dream to the great majority, has naturally its re- 
 action among the wealthy, who in conscious con- 
 trast invest the home with a dignity and sanctity 
 that often passes the bounds of sanity and not seldom 
 strains our sense of humour. The secure home 
 gradually develops into ' the family,' a sacred 
 institution into which you cannot enter unless your 
 resources tend to strengthen it. If one of ' the 
 family ' disregards this rule, he or she marries 
 ' beneath them.' This family spirit is by no means 
 confined to the recognized aristocrat ; it obtains, if 
 it does not actually prevail, in our established middle- 
 class families. The ' industrious apprentice ' is 
 now gently but firmly excluded. I wish we had 
 another Hogarth to show us the new order. To 
 these ' families ' marriage is, of course, a sine qua
 
 igo LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 non. If not the corner-stone, it is an essential part 
 of their social edifice. But when I write of ' home- 
 building ' I have no thought of such artificial arrange- 
 ments. In my sense of the term, the legal form of 
 marriage may or may not play a part. Some of the 
 happiest homes known to me are ' free unions.' I 
 have travelled too far and seen too much to entertain 
 any prejudice for or against legal marriage. The 
 ultimate sanction of marriage will be found, not in 
 the claims of the Church, but in the facihties for 
 divorce. I never quite grasped the truth of this until 
 I came out here, where we have no divorce, and, 
 in consequence, very little marriage. Old Alberto 
 Martinez is a case in point. 
 
 This mild old ruffian brings back to the Estate 
 every year, and sometimes twice a year, a new 
 woman. I passed a few days ago and saw him 
 sitting on a stool at the door of his cottage, 
 while the latest arrival was cooking his evening 
 meal. 
 
 " WeU, Alberto, I see you have got another 
 woman." 
 
 " Yes, sah ; last woman went off Jamaica boy." 
 
 " Don't they like you, Alberto ? " 
 
 " Sometimes they like me ; sometimes I like them ; 
 nevah know till I try, sah." 
 
 " Why don't you marry and be done with it ? " 
 
 " What, sah, me marry ? No, sah." 
 
 " Why not ? " 
 
 " Well, sah, this way. If I marry woman, we live 
 together one year. Then she go off with 'nother 
 man ; I go off 'nother woman. After second year, 
 I take 'nother woman ; she take 'nother man. By
 
 MARRIAGE 191 
 
 an' by, when she old and ogly, she come back to me. 
 She say, ' I your lawful wife ; now you keep me ! ' 
 I say, ' You go to hell, you bitch.' She say, ' Ho, ho ! 
 You talk me like that, me your wife proper. I go to 
 judge ; he give me paper ; I get much your money.' 
 No, sah, me not marry." 
 
 " You did marry once, eh ? " 
 
 " Yes, sah. She bad woman." 
 
 " PoUce were after you, Alberto ? 
 
 " Police, they find nawting, sah." 
 
 " Tell me about it." 
 
 " After I marry, we live 'mongst coco-nuts. I 
 very good with coco-nuts. She say me one day : 
 ' You draw ten dollahs from Boss yesday.* I say : 
 ' Whatfor now ? ' She say : ' Give me five dollahs.' 
 I say : ' Why you want five dollahs ? ' She say : 
 ' I know where buy five hens and one big roostah.' 
 I think very hard. I say myself (she not hear me) 
 if I get fowl-run, I marry two wives, she and fowl- 
 run. Then Boss he happen long ; he say : ' Hello, 
 Alberto, you got fowl-run. Now you stay here long 
 time ; you fixed ; you can't run away ; you take 
 one dollah less wage.' So I say to her : " I not want 
 any fowls ; think I move Point Placentia.' She 
 say : ' Foh Gawd, you dam mean ; you want stick 
 yoh money always in yoh pocket ; you give me 
 nawting, me yoh wife, you give me nawting.' I tell 
 her she not onderstan'. Then she rampage roun' 
 most onruly. By and by she grab my machete. I 
 get 'fraid, so I grab her by her throat. She gurgle a 
 bit, then drop machete. I pick it up quick. She 
 then get 'fraid, like me. She run out. I not want 
 her run 'way, so I run after to say : ' Come back ; I
 
 192 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 not hurt you.' She think I run after her to kill her. 
 No, sah ; me not like that. Me not kill." 
 
 "What then, Alberto? " 
 
 " She run quick into bush. Devil there. He grab 
 her tight, so she not able cry out loud. Nevah see 
 her moah, sah." 
 
 " Did the police believe about the devil, eh ? " 
 
 " I nevah tell them that, sah. They stupid ; they 
 not onderstand." 
 
 " Ever find the body, Alberto ? " 
 
 " No, sah. Devil, he sure took it." 
 
 Please do not think that Alberto is typical. On 
 the whole, our men and women live pretty decently. 
 They exchange partners more frequently than would 
 be approved in high ecclesiastical circles ; but they 
 treat their children with the greatest kindness. 
 Sometimes, in their primitive way, they Hve with 
 marked dignity and self-respect. Only yesterday 
 John Pratt came to me to ask for his money. 
 
 " What's the matter, John ? " 
 
 " Wife sick, sah." 
 
 " Not bad, I hope." 
 
 " Not too bad, sah." 
 
 " Why not stay here and earn money for her ? " 
 
 " Can't sleep thinking of her." 
 
 " Shucks ! John. Wives are cheap. Why not 
 poison her and get another ? " 
 
 " If she die, I die too, sah," he replied, quite 
 simp'y and sincerely. Long may his lady-love wave, 
 in all her ebon beauty, but let her not cast predatory 
 glances at my poultry. 
 
 The instinct of the upper and middle classes for 
 security in home-building is sane and wholesome.
 
 MARRIAGE 193 
 
 even though ' property ' may loom up out of true 
 perspective. Meredith invests home-building with 
 dignity, even with pomp and circumstance. It is 
 the central fact in his scheme of Hfe. Casual or hap- 
 hazard mating he treats with contempt ; no good 
 comes of it. If he had hved long enough to see you 
 courting, he would not have been content until he 
 had placed you in a great country house, a gem set 
 upon some graceful slope, in a ceinture of birch and 
 fir, with water running through orchards and rich 
 fields and so passing into the distance, a stream of 
 Hght radiating through deep-toned verdure You 
 would be a gallant knight, however modern your 
 dress and habits ; your consort — she must be nothing 
 less — would be trained by birth and circumstance 
 to guard the sanctities and amenities of your home, 
 doubtless loving you, but loving your position in 
 the county too ; not out of snobbery, but because she 
 sees it all as a very perfect chatelaine, whose dream- 
 children are crowned with a vision of immaculate 
 conception. He avoids tawdry romance, because he 
 is a great critic ; he achieves beauty, because he 
 is a great artist, both in execution and in ideas 
 that crystallize in the crucible of his finely dis- 
 cipHned imagination. Do you know — a confession ! 
 — that I, your commonplace and presumptuous old 
 uncle, sometimes paint you in Meredithian terms ? 
 
 " The dinner ended with a brilliant riposte by St 
 John Adair, who had been cynically silent during 
 those significant periods that mark social epochs in 
 our county histories, tortuously engendered by a 
 judgment of a daring and subtlety, acquired two 
 generations eariier from the French emigres of that 
 
 N
 
 194 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 black Plutonian night, when gossamer wear was 
 torn in deathly fragments by blind and enraged 
 Demos. Rosamond Mortimer had watched the 
 handsome Adair with a distant semblance of the 
 fascination wrought with daemonic effect by serpent 
 upon dove. There reposed within him, in lazy or 
 contemptuous reserve, dialectical dynamite of high 
 repercussive power. Sir James Swinnerton, the 
 bucolic Member for the Division, heavy and portent- 
 ous, of vast weight in the Councils of the Party (' a 
 log showing the drift of enthroned vacuity,' the 
 Chancellor had wittily described him), had once or 
 twice looked at St John, with polite and puzzled 
 inquiry, the gape of a tourist who comes unexpectedly 
 upon a Sphinx, half hidden by mahogany and 
 recherche napery, the final altar of the cordon bleu. 
 Rosamond had nearly determined to warn Sir James 
 that ' Danger ' was inscribed by the gods upon 
 Adair's heart, like ' Verboten ' on the heart of a 
 German, when Sir Fortescue Mortimer gave her the 
 signal. She led out Lady Dalrymple. George 
 Farley noted that the maid's silver beauty (soon with 
 the alchemy of approved love to be toned into gold) 
 sicklied the dame of fashion. 
 
 " The time traditionally allotted to nuts and wine 
 (for a recondite reason, soon to be disclosed. Sir 
 Fortescue, with ritual solemn and befitting, had 
 tabled some of his precious 1821 port, taken from 
 his inner cellar — the comic muse writes sanctuary) 
 having lapsed. Colonel Desmond strolled out into the 
 great hall, encountering Mrs Rutland. He waved 
 his hand round the antlered walls. 
 
 " ' Austere, don't you think ? ' he queried.
 
 MARRIAGE 195 
 
 " ' Masculine rather than austere. Lady Mortimer 
 went from us too soon to redress the balance. I 
 gain the impression that it marks a three-quarter 
 bachelor.' 
 
 " ' It's a distinction that credits a ripened observa- 
 tion,' said the Colonel, his mellifluous Hibernicisms 
 robbing the remark of sting. 
 
 " ' One may be an accurate observer and yet a 
 bad judge,' replied Mrs Rutland ; ' but your remark 
 struck a deep feminine chord. Ever since we women 
 wore bangles, we have instinctively sensed the differ- 
 ence between the masculine and the austere.' 
 
 " ' But, ma'am, there's an angel in the house.' 
 
 " ' A daughter, not a wife. There's an abyss 
 between father and daughter bridged only by a 
 slender cord of love.' 
 
 " ' A thread or two of mutual confidence, let us 
 hope.' 
 
 " ' Confidence is an uncertain modicum. Beware 
 of the caressing confidence of a daughter about to 
 deceive." 
 
 " ' Then a daughter cannot express herself in her 
 father's house ? 
 
 " ' It would be an aberration of the life-force. 
 She thinks, let us hope, of self-expression in her 
 husband's home.' 
 
 " ' By the pricking of my thumb,' said the Colonel, 
 ' the dream will soon be realized.' 
 
 " Mrs Rutland could purr, but she had claws. 
 ' What did you say, Colonel, about a ripened 
 observation ? 
 
 " ' Ah, ma'am,' rejoined the Colonel, ' yours is in 
 your head ; mine's only at the tips of my fingers.'
 
 196 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 " ' Certainly,' said Mrs Rutland, ' no dinner is 
 complete without an Irishman. Let us go into the 
 drawing-room and listen to the big guns booming.' 
 
 " In the drawing-room Sir James Swinnerton was 
 recounting, ore rotundo and swelled with importance, 
 the exciting crisis of Arthur Balfour's resignation. 
 ' Yes,' he was saying, ' Arthur has gone and we have 
 put Bonar Law in his place.' 
 
 " ' Hail to the tertium quid ! ' cried Adair, with 
 mock enthusiasm. 
 
 " ' Facilis descensus pecunice,' said Sir Fortescue. 
 
 " ' Do you mean money or sheep ? ' asked Desmond. 
 
 " ' The golden calf,' suggested Adair. 
 
 " ' It's a new shrine for old knees to bend at,' said 
 Sir Fortescue, conscious that a shrewd blow had been 
 dealt at his order and the ancient ways. 
 
 " ' When your country calls, you will enter the 
 Temple of Rimmon,' came Adair's smoothly suave 
 comment. 
 
 " ' If you drop in casually, you needn't abjure your 
 faith,' soothed Desmond. 
 
 " ' He had to go,' continued Sir James. ' There's 
 a new force in politics ; 'twas Bonar Law or the 
 triumph of Manchester.' 
 
 " ' There's a considerable Irish population both in 
 Manchester and Glasgow,' remarked Desmond. 
 
 " ' It's the triumph of bad taste,' said Lady 
 Dalrymple. ' Arthur was fastidious. He bent down 
 over the skein and insisted upon drawing out the 
 perfectly correct shade.' 
 
 " ' If you want shades in politics, dear lady,' 
 rattled Sir Fortescue, ' we must not give you the 
 vote. There are only two colours, white for our
 
 MARRIAGE 197 
 
 part}^ black for the Radical rascals.' He looked with 
 arch aplomb at Adair. 
 
 " ' It disturbs me that our statesmen are colour- 
 blind,' laughed Mrs Rutland. 
 
 " ' White and black are not colours,' said Adair, 
 ' but Sir James is surely the embodiment of our 
 Enghsh genius.' 
 
 " ' How, sir ? ' asked Sir James, gratified, but 
 dimly conscious of an ironic dsemon dancing in Adair's 
 mordant brain. 
 
 " ' Because, sir, out of the cackle of the geese, you 
 have conjured Pretorian harmony.' 
 
 " The clocks of Mortimer Towers chimed ten. 
 Sir Fortescue prided himself upon his horological 
 preciosity and was at pains to maintain a choral 
 punctuahty. 
 
 " ' Ohe,' groaned Mrs Rutland. ' Ten o'clock is 
 the Great Divide between Town and Countr}^ In 
 Town we are meeting ; in the Country we are 
 parting.' 
 
 " ' Not of my seeking,' hospitably volunteered Sir 
 Fortescue. 
 
 " ' We have far to go,' sighed Lady Dalrymple ; 
 ' indeed it is a far cry to the borders of your spacious 
 domain.' 
 
 " ' We'll cut it up some day soon,' said Adair 
 cheerfully. ' We lawyers will get some pickings.' 
 
 " ' Unless our commercial Bonar Law buys you 
 off,' said Mrs Rutland, rising. 
 
 " During the evening George Farley had been 
 counting the looks and tones of Rosamond and barely 
 noting scraps of dialogue. With glowing brown eyes 
 he beckoned Rosamond into a windowed alcove.
 
 io8 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 " ' Dearest, your father consents. More ! He 
 gives his blessing. I think I feel humble ; I know 
 I am proud and happy,' 
 
 " ' I feared, yet did not fear, my darling. I wish 
 Uncle Anthony were here.' 
 
 " ' He would not come, averring that he is an im- 
 penitent Democrat and Guildsman. He said that 
 if he chanced to encounter Sir James Swinnerton 
 the guests might think the viands were Vesuvian 
 lava. He bade me fare forth on my love adventure 
 and said he would stay in and add some lines to his 
 pilgrim's scrip.' 
 
 '"The dreadful man ! ' 
 
 " ' He is my earthly trinity — father, mother, 
 uncle,' said George. 
 
 " ' Give him my love and duty,' said Rosamond 
 tenderly. 
 
 " The guests were already in the hall, Mrs Rutland, 
 with Colonel Desmond cavaliering, showing her 
 sinuous grace, even under her winter cloak. Lady 
 Dalrymple, battened down like a frigate chartered 
 to cross the bar, was the first to glimpse Rosamond 
 as she swam out of the drawing-room. 
 
 " ' I see four bright eyes,' she cried. 
 
 " ' Can you see two light hearts ? ' asked George. 
 
 " ' May I blazon it, Sir Fortescue ? ' 
 
 " ' You may throw discretion to the winds and 
 proclaim it to the high heavens,' said Sir Fortescue. 
 
 " ' Another kiss, dear Rosamond. You are a 
 dainty maid and George is a handsome squire ; but 
 I suspect you are two babes in a rose-bower.' 
 
 " She held out her ungloved hand to George, who, 
 gallantly kissing it, escorted her down the steps to
 
 MARRIAGE 199 
 
 her barouche. It was dimly lit, redolent of the 
 antique." 
 
 " Chap. XIV. — Our Hero, on his Morning Ride, 
 MEETS A Fairy who quizzes him 
 
 " Early morning after his betrothal saw George 
 Farley step briskly out of his uncle's house, ' White 
 Nights,' to find his horse champing fidgetly. He 
 quickly glanced at bit, bridle, crupper and belly-band, 
 then jumped lightly astride, and was off at the gallop. 
 He picturesquely fitted the saddle. Mrs Rutland 
 had said that he had the leg of the county, which, 
 like most of her happy mots, was oracularly obvious. 
 Graceful and athletic, he skimmed field and ditch, 
 flying the English hedgerows with natural and 
 rhythmic momentum. He rode as with high purpose, 
 clear-eyed, to his mark, drawing rein and dismounting 
 at the fairy ring, near Bluebell Dell. 
 
 " Love is Demos in ^Ether, touching and brushing 
 prince and peasant ; it is the Great Leveller, armed, 
 not with pike and blunderbuss, but with wings. 
 Love is the Divine Elevator, whisking on its en- 
 chanted carpet all its pilgrims to the starry regions 
 queened by Venus. Love is Bacchus in the laughing 
 custody of Apollo and Admetus. Above all, it is 
 the Great Necromancer, drawing to his magic circle 
 all earth's children pierced with the dart, who listen 
 intent to his incantations. 
 
 " George Farley came to the fairy ring under the 
 fascination of the Great Necromancer. 
 
 " Standing in the centre he looked towards the
 
 200 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 dell, already shimmering blue, waiting in reverie. 
 Fairies and deities might surely nod knowingly at 
 him, now that his love was sealed. Not long did he 
 wait ; Pandora with her jewelled casket rose from her 
 flowered couch and drew to him with quizzical smile. 
 
 " ' I thought at first you were Minerva ; but I 
 see by your box that you are Pandora. What have 
 you in it for me ? ' 
 
 '"For ? ' 
 
 " ' For us,' said George shyly. 
 
 Pandora's eyes made heroical failure to look 
 grave. 
 
 " ' Open and see.' 
 
 " George touched the spring and looked in. The 
 casket presented an encased void. His blank dis- 
 appointment sobered the fairy goddess. 
 
 " ' The box is yours ; you must fill it yourself.' 
 
 " After the morning's adventure perilously near 
 the verge of dreamland, breakfast with Uncle 
 Anthony was bereft of romance. The older man 
 laughingly told him that the older generation trained 
 the better trenchermen. George made frank ad- 
 mission and began building a castle in Spain. A 
 letter was handed to him by the butler. He courage- 
 ously feigned unconcernment. Uncle Anthony broke 
 the filmy substance of his heroical pretence : 
 
 " ' Dear lad, I fear disloyalty. The Queen's 
 Gracious Message brooks no delay. Open it in- 
 stanter.' George opened and read : 
 
 " ' Dearest, 
 
 The night was clear and mild. I sat at 
 my open window and waited for a message from
 
 MARRIAGE 201 
 
 my king. It came on the balmy breeze under the 
 moon's silver canopy, filling me with great happiness. 
 It said that my day of womanhood had come. 
 
 " ' Father asks if Uncle Anthony and you will 
 ride over to lunch. Come quickly. 
 
 " ' Your 
 
 " ' Rosamond.' " 
 
 Am I daft ? Not a bit ! Home-building is a 
 grave and dignified affair. I have told you, by fable 
 and innuendo, all I know about it. I can now only 
 pray that, escaping storm and squall, avoiding rock 
 and shoal, you may happily round Marita Point and 
 set out, full sail, for the open sea. 
 
 A word or two of advice . . . 
 
 Peste ! I must be off. The tram superintendent 
 has just told me that there is a break in the line. 
 He says that the rail at that point is so rotten that 
 no self-respecting snake would have its back broken 
 upon it. 
 
 Your affectionate uncle, 
 
 Anthony Farley.
 
 XX: CONCERNING POLITICS 
 
 My dear George, 
 
 I was delighted (and a little envious) to hear 
 from Halliday of your clever and amusing speech 
 at the Union. He tells me that the fellows are all 
 sorry that you do not speak more frequently. I 
 wish you had frankly told me of it yourself. There 
 is much to recommend in the English habit of personal 
 modesty, of careful understatement of one's posses- 
 sions or attainments, particularly before strangers ; 
 but it has downright disadvantages. Understate- 
 ment may be as misleading or dangerous as over- 
 statement. The Chancellor of the Exchequer is not 
 entitled to credit for a big surplus. It means that 
 his estimates were faulty. In like manner, in esti- 
 mating your capacities and prospects, you may posi- 
 tively injure your future by not boldly claiming from 
 Fate all (and a little more) to which you are entitled. 
 Your title to it is measured by your hopes tempered 
 by your will-power. I do not, of course, mean that 
 you should swagger or talk vaingloriously. Do not 
 talk at all ; confront the world with the accomplished 
 fact. But to me or to any trusted familiar speak 
 frankly, aiming to state your condition of mind or 
 estate with precision. Unless you do this, there is 
 a real danger that your inner consciousness may 
 respond to your outer modesty. The result might 
 be that you would grow into an ineffective English 
 gentleman, of undoubted hon ton, leaving the work 
 of the world to the less delicately contrived. You 
 would be an ornament at the dinner-table and a 
 nuisance in business. In material as in spiritual 
 
 202
 
 CONCERNING POLITICS 203 
 
 affairs let your yea be yea and your nay nay. Yon 
 will find that a habit of decision, of quick recognition 
 of your abilities and limitations, is essential in real 
 life — is, indeed, more precious than rubies. Par- 
 ticularly does the political life call for it, if you 
 would rise high in power. For it is in crises, both 
 great and small, that the man of decision and self- 
 confidence asserts himself and wins the political prize 
 — leadership and power. 
 
 When I speak of leadership, please observe that 
 I confine the term to its strictly political meaning. 
 There is a political type known to us — suave, voluble, 
 persuasive, respectable. It lives upon the political 
 smar change of the passing hour, gambling upon the 
 tidal changes of public opinion, hke outside brokers 
 who trade on tips from their masters of the inner 
 financial ring. Leadership comes to those who 
 correctly guess for have a natural flair for the drift 
 of the electoral current. Once secured, it is main- 
 tained by loyal and unquestioning co-operation with 
 the political machine. A degrading life : for ex- 
 perience soon proves that it is evanescent and sterile. 
 It is leadership without power. And the real prize 
 is power. For my part, perhaps because I am old 
 and disillusioned, I cannot conjecture why any sane 
 man should be content to live, high or low, in the 
 political hierarchy, conscious that the strong men of 
 the world — the men with real power — quite palpably 
 treat him with contempt. It is surely the most 
 gaUing and humiliating position conceivable. The 
 illusion that power is inherent in politics would 
 be amusing were it not disastrous to our national 
 Hfe.
 
 204 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 If then you are thinking of a political career, aim 
 at real politics and not at the parlour-platform 
 popularity, so dear to the Tadpoles and Tapers. I 
 wonder whether some stray bits of conversation I 
 have had recently with Rafael of Placentia would 
 help you. My meeting with him is a little romance. 
 A few months ago, a Spanish Indian rode in and 
 asked for me. He introduced himself as having 
 journeyed far with a message to the gracious Sefior 
 from Don Rafael of Placentia. The name was 
 new to me, so I opened his letter with some 
 curiosity. It read : 
 
 " Dear Sir, 
 
 " Although, as the crow flies, we are not far 
 apart, worlds sunder us by our primitive means of 
 communication. I am, unhappily, very far away. 
 Nevertheless, it has been told to me across the chasm 
 that you strive for greater things than rich crops 
 (which God prosper) ; that you read books ; that 
 you are accounted a wise man. 
 
 " I have, alas ! too often heard of men alleged to 
 think and to read. I have cast my line to hook them, 
 with the tense expectancy of one fishing for tarpon. 
 When caught, they have proved themselves June 
 fish or young sharks and poor sport. Disappointed, 
 I do not lose courage. So I address you in the spirit 
 of the sportsman, ever ready for a prize or a dis- 
 appointment. 
 
 " Pray, sir, send by my man any recent books or 
 other literature not actually trashy or transitory. 
 And if you could follow your literature with a 
 personal visit, I should indeed be happy.
 
 CONCERNING POLITICS 205 
 
 " Believe me that I write sincerely and without 
 arrogance. 
 
 " Yours faithfully, 
 
 " Rafael of Placentia." 
 
 The hunger of this man for intellectual com- 
 panionship impressed me most, even though I smiled 
 at the humour of the situation. Nor was my vanity 
 untouched by the implied compliment that my 
 reputation for wisdom had travelled across the 
 mountains and the great silences. So I sent to him 
 the book about which I have already told you — 
 National Guilds — and a new volume, just published — 
 A History of Economic Doctrines, by MM. Gide and 
 Rist. I also packed a recent file of The New Age and 
 stray copies of various reviews. With them I sent 
 a note expressing the hope that he might find some- 
 thing of interest and told him that a visit was not 
 impossible. 
 
 Of course the names of Gide and Rist are known 
 to you. I had heard vaguely of Rist, but Gide's 
 name was quite familiar. I do not think we have 
 any economist in Great Britain whose authority is as 
 high, and certainly none who writes (and, I suspect, 
 thinks) with such clearness. The beauty of a clear 
 thinker is that not only do you know what he means, 
 but his limitations are obvious. Its Gallic clarity 
 makes the book an oasis in the arid wilderness of 
 economic doctrine and theory. France is famous for 
 its adherence to doctrine ; it very rightly avoids 
 ' applied economics.' And so, from the Physio- 
 crats and Adam Smith down to the last fad in 1910 
 or thereabouts, here you will find economic doctrines
 
 2o6 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 stated in their true perspective and in their relation 
 each to the others. The pubHshers (George G. 
 Harrap and Co.) are unknown to me.' As Rafael of 
 Placentia constantly referred to the book, and as I 
 shall be telling you a good deal of what he said, I 
 advise you to buy it. 
 
 I am not one of those who decry political economy. 
 It is undoubtedly a science. None the less a science 
 because it deals with inconstant factors. If the 
 factors were constant, then economics would become 
 a purely mathematical problem, easily dealt with 
 by engineers and other technicians. Even if your 
 factors change, as their relationships change, political 
 economy, if its spirit be sincerely detached and dis- 
 interested, can discover with reasonable accuracy the 
 main current of economic development. It cannot 
 prophesy and it cannot measure the dynamic power 
 of such factors as labour, invention, and discovery. 
 It can tell us of the totality of work and wealth 
 production ; it affords a working hypothesis as to 
 the motives that urge mankind in material affairs. 
 It is as though it had framed working rules and 
 regulations for the national factory. For a time 
 these rules are explicitly obeyed, even though they 
 are not implicitly accepted. Suddenly a strike or 
 lock-out marks a new and unforeseen situation. 
 Reference to these rules brings no light. They must 
 be modified or perchance completely changed. The 
 dynamic has shattered the static. Why should we 
 blame the economist ? He is not only human and 
 therefore liable to err, but his profession is sternly 
 delimited. He must not cross the frontier into 
 
 ^ This was true at the time the lines were written.
 
 CONCERNING POLITICS 207 
 
 philosophy on one side, nor into politics on another, 
 nor into religion, nor statistics, nor prophecy. The 
 historical school has tried to force his hand and 
 compel him to adopt induction, when deduction is 
 undoubtedly his true role. Did you ever read the 
 controversy between Ricardo and Carey ? I must 
 tell you about it. 
 
 Of course you know Ricardo's law of rent. Adam 
 Smith, following the spirit but not the text of the 
 Physiocrats, has based his theory of rent on the 
 liberality of nature. Quite the contrary, affirmed 
 Ricardo, rent is the child of the avarice of nature. 
 Rent only appears " when the progress of population 
 calls into cultivation land of an inferior quality or 
 less advantageously situated." I need not worry 
 you by an exposition of what you have already learnt 
 in the schools. But it was vital to Ricardo's argu- 
 ment — reached by deduction — that as a fact the 
 most fertile lands are occupied first. (Thus, if you 
 work it out, you will find that Ricardo final'y depends 
 upon the theory that labour is the source of wealth — 
 a fatal blow to Bastiat and his disciples.) Along 
 came H. C. Carey, an American, who denied the 
 fact. Fertile land in its natural state is either 
 overrun with vegetation, which must be cleared, 
 or is covered with water, which must be drained. 
 Rich land is the terror of the emigrant. And so on, 
 with wealth of detail. Great rejoicings from Bastiat 
 et Cie. Of course Ricardo must be wrong. Look at 
 France. Nearly everywhere the old town still crests 
 the hill. A has Ricardo ! Now Hsten to M. Gide : 
 
 " If Carey were writing now he would probably 
 express himself somewhat differently, for it is no
 
 208 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 longer true even of the United States that the most 
 fertile lands are still awaiting cultivation. Only the 
 poorer and the more arid plains remain uncultivated, 
 and here dry-farming has to be resorted to. So that 
 even in the Far West Ricardo's theory is closer to the 
 facts than Carey's. Rents are rising everywhere, 
 and not a few American milhonaires owe their 
 fortunes to this fact." 
 
 Out of this little comedy you will be wise to glean 
 the wisdom of pinning your faith to well-established 
 abstract doctrine. ' Wise saws and modern in- 
 stances ' died with Shakespeare. But I am running 
 away from my purpose. I really wanted to urge 
 that a knowledge of economics is supremely valuable 
 if you enter politics, and I quoted the Ricardo-Carey 
 episode to prove the value of pure deduction. If you 
 fail in this, you will fall to the level of amateur 
 statisticians of the Chiozza Money kidney. They 
 play in the Press the same part as the ' spell- 
 binders ' on the platform. Take infinite pains to 
 base your life upon enduring doctrine, necessarily 
 stated in abstract terms. If your conception of this 
 doctrine really penetrates your being, you will be 
 astonished at the ample liberty it affords you to deal 
 with concrete life. It is the only liberty known to 
 me that is truly the offspring of law : the only liberty 
 that sows good seeds. Licence is generally supposed 
 to be the abuse of liberty. It has no relation to 
 liberty. It is action unlicensed by law. What 
 then is the underlying principle of political economy ? 
 Undoubtedly self-interest. The later economists 
 scoff at such an elemental motive. But it has good 
 Biblical authority : " For where your treasure is,
 
 CONCERNING POLITICS 209 
 
 there will your heart be also." But what constitutes 
 "treasure"? "Ah! Now you're talking," as 
 Americans say. 
 
 ' A few weeks after Rafael of Placentia's messenger 
 had returned, along came old Nathaniel Davila, a 
 Spanish half-breed, who has tracked game from the 
 Atlantic to the Pacific. On his pack-mule were 
 loaded about twenty tiger-skins, a number of deer- 
 antlers, six oriole nests, and two hundred pounds 
 of rubber. Having bought the lot, after tortuous 
 argle-barghng, I asked him if he knew Don Rafael 
 of Placentia. Natty's face brightened. 
 
 " Si, Senor. El tiente un bon puho ; un corazon 
 caliente ; y buenos sesos." 
 
 " You know that country ? " 
 
 " Es la palma de mi mano." 
 
 " You know how to get there ? " 
 
 " Si, Senor. Tres dias en la linia ; yo se crusando 
 las montanas ; y entre el hocotah." 
 
 " Right-o, Natty ! We start to-morrow at day- 
 break." 
 
 With two pack-mules. Natty and my man Clarke, 
 who thinks I am not to be trusted out of his sight, 
 our little cavalcade started, just as the sun was fleck- 
 ing the waters with iridescent darts. At first the 
 going was easy. Then we moved more slowly 
 through indefinite picados, occasionally skirting the 
 pine lands. At midday, beside a stream, we dis- 
 mounted for breakfast. Clarke busied himself with 
 food. Natty watered the horses and mules, while I 
 strolled about, finally disturbing a ' Tommy Gough ' 
 snake that had sleepily coiled itself in the surface 
 roots of a tree. I discharged two bullets at it and
 
 210 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 was, on the whole, glad that I missed. It did not 
 deign to move. After breakfast we mounted and rode 
 on. At four o'clock we came to a river in slight flood. 
 There seemed some doubt whether we could cross. 
 Natty and Clarke, with ceremonious courtesy, 
 allowed me to go first. So, commending my watch 
 to God (Paley interceding) and my riding-boots to 
 the tender mercies of Clarke's brown polish, I spurred 
 my beast into the deadly, immanent stream and 
 luckily forded it at three feet six. As the sun canted 
 its tireless way down to the west we approached a 
 deserted Carib camp and determined to sleep there. 
 Our appetites were well whetted and Clarke excelled 
 himself. About eight o'clock and half-moon, my 
 cot and net being ready, I lay down. Not so Natty 
 and Clarke. Each had his guitar and each pro- 
 ceeded to tune up. Natty was first. Standing up, 
 his right shoulder thrown back, he began : 
 
 " Guar da estaflor 
 I piensa que es ;«/ vida; 
 Porque te adoro con amor ardiente^ 
 Guarda la si^ y piensa en mi metite 
 No cabe nadie — no cube nadie 
 Si te pier do d ti. 
 
 Qu' no te supe amar, eso es mentira, 
 Tu eres la imajen 
 Que vive en mi memoria. 
 Yo sin tu amor no quiero ni la gloria^ 
 Benga la niuerte — benga la tnuerte — 
 Si te pierdo a ti" 
 
 The Honduranean love song rose and fell in plea- 
 sant cadences, Natty 's voice and guitar harmonizing. 
 Clarke, who is a Jamaican negro and thinks of money 
 rather than sentiment, took up the running :
 
 CONCERNING POLITICS 211 
 
 " My pay was forty cents a day (twang), 
 
 Forty cents a day (twang-twang), 
 Worked all day for forty cents pay (twang). 
 
 Forty cents a day (twang-twang). 
 Soon came pay-day, pay-day (twang — in crescendo), 
 
 Forty cents a day (twang-twang). 
 Boss said : ' Come another day' (twang — diminuendo), 
 
 Forty cents a day. 
 
 Come another day." 
 (Twing-twang, twing-twang, twing, twing, twing.) 
 
 The aromatic scents of the forest fiHing my nostrils, 
 combined with the tapping of innumerable birds 
 upon the barks of the immemorial trees, made me 
 drowsy. I remembered nothing until Clarke brought 
 my morning coffee. 
 
 In this wise did we travel until, on the afternoon of 
 the third day, we reached Mount Placentia. Nearly 
 half-way up on the south-west we descried a huge 
 ledge, a plateau in all but name. Upon it, snugly 
 ensconced, was the hacienda of Don Rafael. Our 
 horses and pack-mules quickened their pace, even 
 though we were mounting a track that wound 
 steeply. A touch of coolness in the air indicated our 
 increasing altitude. The track grew into a well- 
 trimmed road, betokening permanent settlement. 
 By four o'clock my spurs jingled on the cobble-stones 
 of a trim yard, three parts surrounded by a rambling 
 adobe building, whose open doorways and windows 
 breathed knightly hospitality. I went up on the 
 verandah and waited. In a minute a discreet old 
 English butler, correctly dressed, came to me to say 
 that the Don would surely be in soon and would I 
 have some tea. " Out here, please." " Yes, sir." 
 
 A sense of some strange event impending kept me
 
 212 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 too preoccupied to look out critically upon the plan- 
 tation that changed in colour and sheen from the 
 coffee uplands to the cacao down below, interspersed 
 with vegetable and fruit trees. My concern for the 
 moment was personal, my mood psychological. Don 
 Rafael of Placentia intrigued me. 
 
 I had not long to wait. A quick, firm step re- 
 called me from reverie. A large man, bearded, 
 athletic. Natty had truly described him as having 
 a big fist — im bon puno. A domed forehead, 
 covered with black curly hair, steady grey eyes, 
 whose vision lit up an aquihne nose. I rose to take 
 his greeting. A sense of the famihar came to me, a 
 dim stirring of vague memories. 
 
 " Tony Farley, as I'm a sinner ! " he laughed. 
 
 " Geoffrey Raymond ! Well, Fm damned ! " 
 
 Thirty years ago his intimates had prophesied that 
 in the end Geoffrey Raymond would lead England 
 with gracious distinction in any conceivable crisis. 
 Sane, sohd, lovable, of great attainments, an ex- 
 ceptional career lay before him. And now England's 
 crisis was upon her and here before me stood 
 Raymond. I remembered a dinner of choice souls, 
 of which he was the centre. We laughed and argued 
 and told stories well into the morning. I remembered 
 a wonderful monologue of Raymond's on Imperial- 
 ism, in which he reviewed colonization and dominion 
 from Corinth to Carthage, from Rome to Spain. 
 And now he stood before me, grasping my hand 
 in his ' big fist.' After a quarter of a century, here 
 he was in the flesh, in this remote corner of Central 
 America. 
 
 " What's become of Waring ? " I said gravely.
 
 CONCERNING POLITICS 213 
 
 " Rats ! Tony. Rats ! " he jeered. " Waring 
 became a Levantine pirate, didn't he ? By the 
 way, does anybody read Browning nowadays at 
 home ? " 
 
 " Lord, yes ! Every mutual improvement society 
 has a Browning night once a year. They generally 
 bring down some University Extension prig." 
 
 " My hat ! But let's have a drink." 
 
 "Rather! I see youhave Hmes. A whisky sour for 
 me." In this light way Don Rafael of Placentia rode 
 off a situation not devoid of emotional tenseness. 
 
 " Sorry I wasn't here when you arrived, old chap. 
 Fact is, I was umpiring a cricket match — Cacao 
 versus Cafe. The Coffee boys won by ten runs." 
 
 " I have a boy on my estate who could earn money 
 as a professional in England. Slow overarm, perfect 
 length, natural movement. Each farm team insists 
 on having him in turn." 
 
 " It's odd how round-arm bowling persists out 
 here. They get marvellous pace. I've taught my 
 boys that pitch is better than pace." 
 
 The day's final glow presaging night was upon 
 us. 
 
 " Geoffrey, what have you to say for yourself ? " 
 He was lounging lazily against the upright of a 
 French window. He stiffened on the instant, 
 stepped to the edge of the verandah, waved his arm 
 toward the mountain-side and slowly down to the 
 valley. 
 
 " Circumspice ! " he replied proudly. 
 
 " Te absolve." 
 
 Geoffrey Raymond, Don Rafael of Placentia, lord 
 of one hundred thousand acres, thinker, ideahst,
 
 214 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 planter, man of affairs, man of the world, more than 
 all else a man, has come back into my life. Do you 
 wonder that to-night the blood speeds quicker 
 through my veins, that I am a little excited ? 
 Your affectionate uncle, 
 
 Anthony Farley.
 
 XXI: THE POWER BEHIND THE 
 THRONE 
 
 My dear George, 
 
 When I awoke next morning cirrus clouds 
 dreamily floated across a pale blue sky, while a 
 gentle breeze rustled through trees and over shrubs. 
 A day to invite repose. Still fatigued after my 
 journey, I took coffee in bed, slowly mustering 
 courage to face a shower-bath. Finally, impelled 
 by shame rather than desire, I performed the sacred 
 ritual, and then strolled down a path that led to the 
 stables. Surrounded by lush pasture lands, I found 
 housed here about a hundred horses and Texan mules. 
 I expect you will think us uncivilized when I tell you 
 that a good mule fetches a higher price than a horse. 
 Two of my mules having recently died from snake- 
 bites, the daemon of the horse-dealer possessed me 
 and I pondered whether I could get the best of it with 
 Rafael. I did ! For at that psychological moment 
 he joined me with jolly morning greetings. " Do 
 you trade in these? " I asked, with feigned indiffer- 
 ence. "Rather!" said he; "got quite a decent 
 name among the buyers. Don't know why. I 
 cheat, like everybody else." " So do I," said I, 
 laughing. " That grey chap is worth buying," 
 answered Rafael. " He's only thirteen two," said I ; 
 "we want 'em fourteen." Rafael leaned against a 
 post and chortled. " So you would do a trade, 
 would you? " "I might," I answered, " if I could 
 see anything that wasn't knock-kneed and spavined." 
 " You have the root of the matter in you, Tony ; 
 but, my dear chap, it takes two to make a bargain. 
 
 215
 
 2i6 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 I am returning with you, and I'll take a couple extra 
 and leave 'em." "Now you've spoilt the deal," 
 said I. " Not a bit of it ; only I've got the best of 
 it." On our way to the house we watched an Indian 
 girl churning butter, which looked like Devonshire 
 cream. "It makes me feel peckish," said Rafael; 
 " let's go in and eat something." 
 
 After breakfast we sat out on the verandah, 
 smoking excellent Mexican cigars. We were both 
 silent, both thinking of this strange encounter. 
 
 " Journeys end in old friends meeting," said I 
 sententiously. 
 
 " You would be less than himian if you were not 
 curious about me," Rafael remarked. 
 
 " I should have asked you if you hadn't volun- 
 teered it." 
 
 " There is really very little to tell you. My 
 mother was Spanish ; her brother owned this place. 
 When he died it came to me." 
 
 " How did your uncle hold it through the various 
 revolutions ? " 
 
 " Nothing simpler. He became an American 
 citizen. When trouble threatened he made a bee- 
 Hne for the United States Consulate. I'm British, 
 of course. WeU, just when I had decided upon a 
 poHtical life, I found it necessary to come here to 
 straighten things out. One month lengthened itself 
 into a year. I grew fascinated. Here I felt a sense 
 of immense usefulness. On the mountain-side my 
 coffee-trees flourished ; down in the valley grew 
 cacao." 
 
 " I grow mine on undulations." 
 
 " You needn't, you know, so long as you drain."
 
 THE POWER BEHIND THE THRONE 217 
 
 " Yes ; but draining on the flat is the devil." 
 " Anyhow, I always liked animals — you haven't 
 seen my pigs yet — and horses and mules need careful 
 tending. A cable arrived one morning announcing 
 an impending dissolution. I felt like an unwilling 
 bridegroom called to marry an ugly bride. I invited 
 my soul. Here, thought I to myself, are animals and 
 food-stuffs — good, honest food at that. If I go back 
 it is only to fill people's bellies with political east 
 wind. It is curious that when you are in the thick 
 of politics you do not realize the meaning of certain 
 sinister aspects of it. You are in a swirl ; there are 
 all kinds of excitements — mainly personal when you 
 look back on it ; each day brings its petty crisis. 
 There is literally no time to think seriously. The 
 only thinking you do is to swot up platform argu- 
 ments for your own side. In the autumn you are 
 visiting, or shooting, or hunting. It's tragically 
 futile. Think of it, Tony — no time to think. You 
 do not hear the still small voice : ' Be still and know 
 that I am God.' The buzzing in your ear is too loud." 
 " What are the sinister things you mentioned ? " 
 " Put bluntly, the money power. It permeates 
 politics. You start as candidate. One of your rich 
 supporters is Jones. He owns a big factory. Your 
 agent, who is probably paid by Jones, impresses you 
 with the immense importance of conciliating Jones. 
 ' Damn Jones ! ' you say to yourself ; but you want 
 to win, so you yield little bits of your creed on in- 
 dustrial legislation to procure his goodwill. Along 
 comes Smith. Smith is a big retailer and influen- 
 tial among the Wesleyans or Baptists. Your agent 
 warns you not to antagonize Smith. When it comes
 
 2i8 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 to shop hours and fines and living-in, Smith beHeves 
 in the voluntary principle. Off goes another chip of 
 your creed. And so it goes on. The more you 
 politically bulge, the more your soul shrinks. In the 
 early stages it is as crude and blatant as that. Higher 
 up it is much more subtle. The big commercial 
 magnates can make rings round the political leaders. 
 They are equally subtle, almost invariably better 
 informed, less scrupulous, and are personally and 
 financially much more interested than the politicians. 
 In this respect, our whole political life suffers from 
 chronic humihation." 
 
 " I suppose," said I, " the young commercial 
 generation goes to Oxford and Cambridge so that as 
 gentlemen they can more powerfully support their 
 order." 
 
 " To come to the point, I decided to grow coffee 
 and cocoa. I cabled infinite regrets. The decision 
 once made, I was happy as a sandboy. J'y suis, j'y 
 reste, said I to myself, said I. Nor have I ever cast 
 one longing look behind." 
 
 " Why did you change your name ? " 
 
 " I didn't ; it changed itself. It was my uncle's 
 name. This was Rafael's plantation. The people 
 insisted upon it. I rather like it, don't you ? " 
 
 " Fits you like a glove, and goodly is your 
 heritage." 
 
 It was natural that at first there should be some 
 self-consciousness in our conversation, a suspicion of 
 uneasiness slightly hectic. By now this had been 
 completely dissipated and silence became possible. 
 We smoked together, verbally incommunicado, in 
 spirit en rapport.
 
 THE POWER BEHIND THE THRONE 219 
 
 " Your view of politics interests me immensely. 
 I have been writing to my nephew very much in the 
 same vein," I finally remarked. 
 
 " Mind you, I don't condemn economic power," 
 said Rafael ; "on the contrary, I welcome it. I 
 strive after it myself. So do most of us." 
 
 " Moi aiissi," I interjected. 
 
 " But the criminal thing is when it controls you 
 when you ought to control it. As things are, it is 
 a usurpation, an attack on the national majesty. 
 Suppose that you decide to go on a long journey. 
 Your resources are equal to the strain. You go to 
 your banker and tell him your requirements. The 
 banker hums and haws. ' I fear I cannot permit 
 it,' he finally says. ' Damn your impudence, the 
 money is mine ! ' you reply. ' No doubt,' says he ; 
 ' but I control it.' That is really the national 
 position. Parliament thinks a certain course desir- 
 able. It costs money. Very good ; we are a rich 
 nation and can afford it. Does Parliament drive 
 ahead on its great adventure ? It passes a favour- 
 able resolution, but does not vote the mone}^ ' The 
 moment is not propitious,' say the political leaders ; 
 ' we must wait until the money market is more 
 favourable.' When our statesmen are reduced to 
 that posture it is time for a revolution." 
 
 " Just before the war it looked like coming." 
 
 " Yes ; the war stopped it. The prospect of such 
 a revolution was doubtless a factor in the decision 
 for war." 
 
 " You talk like a Social Democrat." 
 
 " There's a lot to be said for Social Democracy. 
 The trouble is that the Socialists don't know their
 
 220 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 business. They suffer from political illusion, A 
 Parliamentary majority ! Pish ! Do you think I 
 care what the politicians do or say ? I never even 
 read about them. I know every big planter from 
 here to the Pacific. We understand each other. 
 But where should I be if my labourers came to me 
 in a body and declined to work on the old terms ? 
 Suppose the movement were universal." 
 
 " You would make terms, of course." 
 
 " What else could I do ? My only chance would 
 be to get the question referred to Parliament. It 
 would fizzle out there ; we would see to that. Out 
 here we are quite unorganized. Think what the 
 money power can do when organized as it is organized 
 in England. Apart from the political illusion, the 
 Socialists make another mistake ; they think capital 
 must either command or succumb. There are only 
 two alternatives, they assert. There are fifty, and, 
 when threatened, you may be sure capital will take 
 the least expected — the alternative most embarrass- 
 ing to its enemies. Its Achilles' heel is the control 
 of labour power. Pierce that and the whole in- 
 dustrial system — it is quite correct to call it the wage- 
 system — collapses. No ParHament in the world can 
 do that. The idea is grotesque. To Parliament, 
 politics ; to industry, economics." 
 
 " You talk as though they are two different 
 spheres." 
 
 " To-day they are one and divisible. They must 
 be divided. It is statesmanship's next great task. 
 If one could discuss in Parliament really vital prob- 
 lems — the separation of the humanities from the 
 technical in education, for example — without running
 
 THE POWER BEHIND THE THRONE 221 
 
 up against pursy vulgarians, I might go home and 
 have a shot at pohtics. But you can't do it, Tony. 
 Let's go for a ride." 
 
 He tapped his pipe vigorously against his boot, 
 stood up, stretched himself, and pulled out his watch. 
 Every movement was quick, decided, virile. We 
 mounted and rode down toward the valley. I 
 noticed that nothing escaped him. He knew the 
 natural history of his district ; he would pull up 
 abruptly before some unfinished job ; the domestic 
 economy of his labourers he had at his finger-tips, 
 smiling and joking at it with them. They too 
 smiled when he approached. " Has the Commissary 
 sent you down that vioHn, Alonzo ? " " It's come." 
 Or, " Hello, Ceito, that baby arrived yet ? " Or, 
 " I'll have that cottage ready for you next week, 
 Theophilus." We examined a Maya ruin, shot a fat 
 pigeon, plucked some orchids, galloped over a reach 
 of open country, took tea with the overseer, joked 
 with his wife, a vivacious Creole, admired the China 
 Polands with their quaint snouts, a little reminiscent 
 of the stage Irishman (why do we tolerate it ?) and 
 so home. 
 
 Before dinner Rafael concocted two celestial cock- 
 tails. I told him he could earn his living as a bar- 
 tender. He told me of a man in New Orleans who 
 earned five hundred dollars a month mixing gin- 
 fizzes. Mention of New Orleans reminded me of my 
 arrival there once after five months without a hot 
 bath. I had met a New York architect who was 
 returning after having plundered the Guatemalan 
 churches. He had bought for five thousand dollars, 
 generally by bribing the caretakers, what he could
 
 222 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 sell for one hundred thousand. He insisted upon 
 my dining with him that night at Antoine's. I 
 reached my hotel at three o'clock in the afternoon. 
 Choosing a bedroom with a bathroom attached, I had, 
 without delay, turned on the hot and plunged in. 
 Then I turned on the cold, and in three hours had 
 contrived twenty hot and twenty cold baths. Rafael 
 laughed and was about to reminisce when Smith 
 solemnly announced dinner. 
 
 After some desultory conversation Rafael thanked 
 me for sending the books and reviews. He was 
 delighted with Gide and Rist. 
 
 " I picked up one interesting fact out of that book, 
 Tony. You know we are apt to regard political 
 economists as men of the study, remote from the 
 surge of life, living in abstractions. As a fact, it is 
 astonishing how many of them were men of affairs. 
 Quesnay, the founder of the Physiocrats, was a doctor 
 and a courtier. Most of that group were socially or 
 financially 'in the swim.' J. B. Say began as an 
 insurance broker, was a member of the Tribunate, 
 became a cotton-spinner and made a fortune." 
 
 " I remember," said I, " that he changed his views 
 after becoming a manufacturer." 
 
 " Modified them, Tony ; not changed them. He 
 very properly fused his experience into his ideas. 
 That is the worst of you cynics. You sacrifice truth 
 to cynicism." 
 
 " Germany is courageously fighting that cynicism 
 shall have a place in the sun." 
 
 " Ricardo was a stockbroker ; scooped two million 
 in no time." 
 
 " The Jew will out even in economics."
 
 THE POWER BEHIND THE THRONE 223 
 
 " There you go again, Tony. Ricardo turned 
 Christian, and Protestant at that. He became a 
 Member of Parhament. It's curious and perhaps 
 significant that two of our great economists, Ricardo 
 and Marx, were Jews turned Christians." 
 
 " Doubtless they combined the heresies of both 
 religions." 
 
 " Bastiat was a merchant, a farmer, and a Depute. 
 Proudhon was a master printer. Rodbertus was a 
 Prussian landowner and member of the Diet or what- 
 ever they call their guttural talking-shop. Carey 
 was a publisher. John Stuart Mill was a Member of 
 Parliament." 
 
 " Like Sidney Webb, he also married a wife." 
 
 " What of it ? I rather Uke that story of his 
 Avignon hermitage." 
 
 "Perhaps. But I sometimes wonder whether his 
 Victorian saintliness hadn't a good deal to do with 
 his vogue. PoHtical economy was respectable be- 
 fore ; Mill gave it eloquence and unction. It became 
 a holy crusade. Liberty ! " 
 
 " He believed every word of it. Anyhow, I like 
 to know that our pohtical economy was in some 
 measure evolved by men who knew the difference 
 between an invoice and a bill of exchange," 
 
 " It is worth remembering, too, that Nassau Senior, 
 the veritable arch-priest of Manchesterism, was an 
 Oxford professor," I remarked. 
 
 " And therefore a man of affairs, my dear Tony. 
 For he could not have been a professor in those days 
 unless he was a three-bottle man." 
 
 " Non sequitur, you ass ! " 
 
 At this point Smith announced the arrival of Don
 
 224 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 Jose Ramiro d'Allejuela y Arroyan, General y 
 Commandante. Rafael drew a wry face and told 
 Smith to conduct him to his study. 
 
 " Baksheesh ! " he said to me. " I'm afraid it will 
 be a slow and tortuous affair, Tony." 
 
 " Well, I shall go and write to my graceless scamp 
 of a nephew. Don't let the grandee skin you." 
 Your affectionate uncle, 
 
 Anthony Farley.
 
 XXII : THE IMPORTANCE OF POLITICS 
 
 My dear George, 
 
 This Placentia Estate, so well ordered, so ex- 
 quisitely situated, is Rafael's complete justification. 
 He chose the better part when he forswore politics 
 and settled here. Yet, when I consider the condition 
 of affairs at home and the type of politician who 
 guides our destinies, I am jealous of this place and 
 find myself ardently wishing that Geoffrey Raymond's 
 acute brain and serene spirit were placed at the 
 service of the Mother Country. This wish is accom- 
 panied by the disquieting thought that there are 
 probably others of equal attainments and fine temper 
 who have retired from or never entered pubUc Ufe 
 because pure politics has been vitiated by impure 
 financial considerations. 
 
 I think I told you in my last letter of a stray remark 
 of Rafael's illustrating the confusion between politics 
 and economics. He said that if he could discuss the 
 humanities of education and technical instruction 
 without the interference of money, he might return 
 to England. I have since hit upon a passage in 
 National Guilds confirming Rafael's view, but I am 
 quoting it with an ulterior purpose : 
 
 " We appear to be doomed to oscillate in our 
 national education between the humanistic and the 
 technical, between the civic and the industrial, be- 
 tween the literary and the commercial ; with small 
 satisfaction to either party, and with disaster in the 
 end to the nation as a whole." 
 
 I do not think that the truth of this criticism 
 can be seriously contested. It appears to me to be 
 
 f 225
 
 226 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 written by a man who knows education from the 
 inside. It is a ternble comment upon the spiri- 
 tual condition of England. But change the word 
 * humanistic ' into ' poHtical ' and ' technical ' into 
 ' economic' Now read again : 
 
 " We appear to be doomed in our national life to 
 oscillate between the political and the economic, 
 between the civic and the industrial, with small 
 satisfaction to either party, and with disaster in the 
 end to the nation as a whole." 
 
 Is not the parallel complete ? Is it not deadly ? 
 
 Observe that the inculcation of the humanities is 
 so beautiful that we should desire it ; technical in- 
 struction is essential ; political life is vital ; economic 
 development, if not equally vital, is at least a tre- 
 mendous part of our national anatomy. We appear 
 in these later times to have become so muddy- 
 brained that we do not distinguish between these 
 vital essences ; we indiscriminately mix them in one 
 crucible, " with disaster in the end to the nation as a 
 whole." I wish, my boy, I were as young as you, 
 with your chances. A mission of national clarifica- 
 tion, of definition and limitation of functions, in- 
 evitably leading to the release of the spirit from 
 degrading bondage : if you are intent upon a pubHc 
 career, compare such a mission with the mean and 
 paltry shifts of petty politics. If you choose the 
 former, God speed you ; if the latter, may you be 
 damned ! 
 
 The assumption still prevails in Great Britain that 
 our political leaders are wholly free from the influ- 
 ence of the 'interests.' The assumption is of some 
 value, because it is at least a recognition that spiritual
 
 THE IMPORTANCE OF POLITICS 227 
 
 considerations (politics, rightly understood, is a nice 
 balance of spiritual truths) prevail over material 
 considerations. Alas ! it is only an assumption. 
 If we could buy our politicians in the illicit sense, 
 we might rectify the evil by changing them, or by a 
 Pride's purge. In that sense, however, our pohticians 
 are not really venal. The evil is more deeply rooted ; 
 they one and all believe in the essential justice and 
 wisdom of the existing regime. The ' interests ' are 
 dominant because the pohticians see no reason why 
 they shouldn't be. Protesting their independence, 
 they bow to the fact ; they welcome it. It is not 
 hypocrisy ; it is heresy. 
 
 The influence upon character of this hopelessly in- 
 consistent posture of affairs is not far to seek. Why 
 is it commonly said that political promises are mere 
 pie-crust ? Why are national treaties regarded as 
 the first act in a drama of national perfidy ? No 
 proof is required. It would be easy to adduce several 
 thousands of them at any general election. It suf- 
 fices that there is universal increduUty in poHtical 
 promises. Pohticians' assertions are regarded pre- 
 cisely as quack doctors' ! In plain English, politics 
 is a conspiracy of platform hes and screened intrigue. 
 Gentlemen naturally avoid it. The vicious circle in 
 which politicians move is easily described. John 
 Smith is a candidate, making certain promises. After 
 a few years he is reminded that his promises re- 
 main unhonoured. Asked for an explanation, he 
 says that he did his best, but the interests were too 
 strong. " Then why didn't you resign ? " "Oh, 
 that would do no good, for if I am re-elected we are 
 no better off, and if I am defeated we are worse off."
 
 228 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 The first effect, then, of the subjugation of ideas by 
 money is that a morally low type of politician gains 
 ascendancy — one who by cunning and falsehood runs 
 with the hare and hunts with the hounds. It is 
 cynicism enthroned. There is a passage in Ruskin 
 somewhere in which he affirms that the habits of the 
 ruling classes inevitably permeate downward. So it 
 is in politics. The Liberals imitate the Tories, the 
 Nationalists the Liberals (watch them at the National 
 Liberal Club), the Labourists (when father turns, we 
 all turn) slavishly imitate the Nationalists. The 
 result is that cunning and loquacity come to the 
 top while modesty and quality remain ignored and 
 unrequited. I am thinking particularly of Richard 
 Tudor. 
 
 When one regards the self-satisfied pumpkins and 
 manikins who sit on the Labour benches in Parlia- 
 ment, it is impossible to realize that they are the 
 illegitimate offspring of a movement which in the late 
 eighties and early nineties drew to it a legion of 
 generous young men to whom it seemed to be re- 
 generation and life, after the deathly influence of the 
 Gladstone period. Very willingly did they sacrifice 
 themselves. Nothing was too humble for them to do. 
 They freely spent time, money, and their own lives. 
 To them it was no political adventure ; it was a 
 sacrament. Emancipation ! Each and all, their 
 elastic step betokened a new constitution in the 
 waistcoat pocket. And none was of a more generous 
 mind, none more enthusiastic, than Richard Tudor. 
 
 The last of an old and distinguished Welsh family, 
 he carried his breeding lightly but palpably in speech 
 and bearing. He was a civil servant with a small
 
 THE IMPORTANCE OF POLITICS 229 
 
 private income. He lived simply ; his wants were 
 few. His main expenditure was on books and music. 
 Who can tell what went into his spiritual and in- 
 tellectual make-up ? He would turn from his be- 
 loved Beethoven to Welsh mediaeval war-songs, of 
 which he had collected a great number, setting some 
 to his own music. He reconstructed the ancient 
 architecture of St David's and Caerphilly. I think 
 his revolt was at bottom directed against a system 
 that had degraded his people from brave and 
 chivalrous warriors into coal-miners and tinplate 
 workers. The Welsh valleys, through which we 
 sometimes tramped, beckoned to him to lead his 
 people out and to smash the strange gods which they 
 ignorantly worshipped. But he was by no means 
 a mediasvalist. He had mastered Ricardo, Stanley 
 Jevons and Marx. No Blue Book on social condi- 
 tions escaped him. I have somewhere a memoran- 
 dum which he wrote on the Industrial Remuneration 
 Conference. Already he had detected strains and 
 tendencies, which later disclosed themselves. To 
 the Socialist and Labour movement of that decade 
 this man (intensely practical because he was a 
 dreamer) gave himself without reservation and in 
 the spirit of the devotee : " Do with me as Thou 
 wilt, O Lord." A rich acquisition, eh ? 
 
 On looking back over those early days, so strenu- 
 ous and absorbing, I hardly know whether to be 
 amused or angry. Certainly amused at our illusions, 
 even though our expectations, never to be realized, 
 seem pathetic. Not for years after did actuality 
 " brush with ruthless touch the bloom of fancy from 
 the briar of fact." Angry, in the memory of young
 
 230 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 men like Tudor being broken on the wheel of in- 
 sincere politics and exploited by ambitious Labour- 
 ists not worthy to unloose his latchets. Tudor was 
 untiring. He dragged me into endless adventures 
 and imbroglios. " Come on, Tony, damn you ! Don't 
 be so lazy. Let's go to the Trade Council and have 
 a rumpus. Give 'em ideas, my boy." Or, "Let's 
 concoct a letter to The Daily Press. I want to knife 
 Evans. Do you know what Evans is ? He's a dirty 
 little party hack." Or, " There's a committee to- 
 night. Be sure you come. I want to get down Shaw 
 or Webb." Or, "Let's distribute leaflets to-night. 
 Fve just bought 2000 from the Fabian Society." 
 Or, " Let's hold an open-air meeting to-night. 
 There's a gorgeous new pitch down at Newtown. 
 If we don't capture it, the Salvation Army will," 
 I can close my eyes and see him seated at a table, 
 sharp-featured, with long, pointed, restless fingers. 
 Around sit a number of working men, whose blunted 
 fingers are in themselves a parable. We are discuss- 
 ing a public meeting in the Town Hall. Tudor is 
 patient and courteous. He suggests that Williams 
 shall move the resolution, that Rowe shall second it, 
 to be supported by our lecturer. He proposes that 
 Chappie (a leather-lunged Trade Union official, many 
 years later to become mayor of the town) shall pre- 
 side. Heavens ! the endless chatter and bickering 
 over so small a matter ! At length it is over and we 
 are free to go. We walk together to Tudor's house. 
 Supper is waiting. We are hungry and excited. 
 Another step toward the great, far-off, divine event ! 
 Our excitement gradually dies away. It is late, and 
 we have done our day's work, in addition to this our
 
 THE IMPORTANCE OF POLITICS 231 
 
 contribution to ' the cause.' We go into Tudor's 
 study, where are lounge chairs and tobacco. Ha ! 
 This is good. Tudor, nervous and highly strung, 
 feels lassitude creeping over him. But his brain is 
 active. Physical exhaustion leaves a tireless mind. 
 He sits at the piano. Strains of Beethoven, of 
 Mendelssohn shoot Hke forked lightning through 
 thick clouds of tobacco smoke. Tudor forgets us in 
 an improvised reverie, at first soothing, then pro- 
 vocative. The walls fall away and we are carried 
 by magic levitation back to the ancient days and the 
 ancient ways. Knights and vassals march cautiously 
 (a deep chord, struck at intervals, warns us to be- 
 ware of an ambush) against the castle, on whose 
 battlements bowmen run hither and thither. Crash ! 
 A bloody fight is toward. Cut and thrust, cut and 
 thrust : the notes in G major hurtle after each other 
 in thrilled excitement. A warning now strikes the 
 ear, a slower movement gradually discloses itself 
 out of the medley of the musical melee ; death is all 
 around the drawbridge ; let us commend to God the 
 souls of brave men. Boom, boom, boom : the bass 
 signals a passing requiem. But the fight ? Again 
 we are back in the upper notes, which clang and 
 jingle ; overcoming stout resistance, we cross the 
 moat and hack and hew our way up the winding 
 stairway. Victory ! Tudor's fingers dance deftly 
 over the keyboard. Our gallant foe yields ; but we 
 honour him. So now the music moves with slow 
 majesty, telHng us of the inevitableness of tragedy 
 and failure. Relentless is fate ; yet not unkind, for 
 it leaves to us memory and only deprives us of honour 
 should we prove unworthy. Hints of a Gregorian
 
 232 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 chant remind us that we are passing into the Christian 
 era. "Is it peace ? " plaintively pipes the treble. 
 " War and rapine and murder," thunders the bass ; 
 " not peace, but a sword." Mankind is in pain and 
 travail ; the thought of it sombrely beats against 
 our hearts by an ever-recurrent minor note. 
 Courage ! The Marseillaise are marching on Paris. 
 A new birth in a flood of blood ! Horror gradually 
 submits to brutal strength, which in the guise of a 
 dictator strikes left and right. " How long, O Lord, 
 how long ? " Yet hope prevails ; the kindly earth 
 yields its fruit ; man's labour is not in vain ; beauty 
 is not destroyed — its eyes shine, yet with saddened 
 memories of monstrous wrongs monstrously avenged. 
 Birds sing ; water mirthfully trills its way over the 
 mountain ledges ; the winds sing a song of cleanHness 
 and regeneration. . . . 
 
 For some years did Richard Tudor live this life, 
 modest and untiring. Ambitious men exploited him, 
 ate at his table, picked his brains and forgot him. 
 But a time came when his gorge rose. Socialism 
 had asserted itself ; of its stimulating effect there 
 could be no doubt. " Let us now be faithful in great 
 things as we have been in small, and we are on the 
 threshold of a new era," he would say. Came the 
 political lure. A prominent Labour SociaUst paid 
 him a visit. " The time has come for political action 
 on political lines," he said ; "we must fight the 
 enemy with his own weapons." 
 
 " You mean we must soil our fingers with the 
 enemy's weapons," said Tudor, 
 
 " The cause will keep them clean," replied the 
 expectant statesman, rolHng his eyes unctuously.
 
 THE IMPORTANCE OF POLITICS 233 
 
 " The cause can only keep them clean by keeping 
 us out of it," insisted Tudor. 
 
 " I want to do something before I die," said the 
 Labourist. 
 
 " I would rather die than do that," said Tudor 
 quietly. 
 
 " I am sorry you take that line," answered the 
 politician, " because we think this division should be 
 fought. Indeed, we have reached an understanding 
 with the Liberals that if we leave them alone some- 
 where else they will leave us alone here." 
 
 " What's the name of the candidate ? Judas ? " 
 
 " My name has been suggested. My Union will 
 find the money." 
 
 " Will you have a drink before you go ? " 
 
 " Don't mind if I do," said the obtuse fool. 
 
 Tudor scornfully poured him out some whisky 
 and soda, standing stiff and distant while his guest 
 drank. 
 
 " Not half bad. So-long ! " 
 
 Tudor saw the work of years, into which he had 
 put his vitality, his brilliant brain, his mordant 
 thought, his soul, shattered at one blow by a vulgar 
 little ignoramus backed by a rich trade union. He 
 lay back in his chair, crushed and heartbroken. I 
 found him so an hour after. I felt as I sat beside 
 him, vainly comforting, that some loved one lay in a 
 cofhn upstairs. He applied for a year's leave. It 
 was given just in time. His health broke down. 
 For days and weeks he moped, miserable, depressed, 
 incapable of any plan or project. I took the law 
 into my own hands. Henry Brown was just off to 
 examine some gold-mines in South Africa. " You
 
 234 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 must go too," I said decisively. " If you say so, 
 Tony," he replied listlessly. I saw to his outfit, his 
 packing, his ticket. I took him down to Southampton, 
 tipped his steward, and made him comfortable. 
 " I don't think I shall see you again, Tony. It's 
 all up." "Fudge! You and I are done with the 
 damned movement. Other interests will buck you 
 up." " rU write you from Funchal," he said. And 
 he did. I will send you a copy of that letter when I 
 return. 
 
 Rafael, who has been at the far end of his planta- 
 tion since sunrise, is riding up. It has been a quiet 
 day and the memory of Richard Tudor makes me 
 a little miserable. I owed him much. 
 Your affectionate uncle, 
 
 Anthony Farley.
 
 XXIII : A CHANGE OF HEART 
 
 My dear George, 
 
 Rafael does his work with smooth celerity. 
 He never fusses, never hastens, never forgets. A 
 cool and balanced mind like his radiates confidence 
 throughout the staff, and even the labourers are 
 finally seized with a sense of permanence and com- 
 fort. It sets one thinking about the value of tem- 
 perament in the affairs of life, in the material no less 
 than in the artistic. We heap our treasure into the 
 lap of some great artiste, more, I think, because 
 of temperament than technique, however supreme. 
 We are apt to forget that the time spent on business 
 is greater than the time allotted to leisure and 
 pleasure. We, in fact, spend most of our lives 
 on wealth production. Why not, then, make our 
 working hours happier ? Granted that with the 
 vast majority work is a daily grind, may it not 
 happen that some man with a sunny and urbane 
 temperament may soften the grind and come near 
 to making it bearable ? Our industrial system is 
 rapidly killing out any kind of pleasure in work, and, 
 in the large sense, the killing process will continue 
 until a new order of society kills the killing process. 
 But in the local and restricted sense a humorist in 
 the workshop is worth far more than his wages. 
 Men work better when they laugh than when they 
 are glum and moody. Perhaps one of these days 
 we shall see advertisements for mechanics and other 
 artisans with a vein of humour, for which there shall 
 be extra pay. I do not doubt that the Court fool 
 earned his money. Have you ever heard a group of 
 
 235
 
 236 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 Russian peasants singing together as they mowed ? 
 Alas ! harvesting machinery cuts down more than 
 the crop. 
 
 Rafael rode up after a long day in the saddle, 
 equable, self-poised, breathing a spiritual serenity. 
 He was tired and a lounge chair on the verandah 
 was obviously agreeable. His ' boy ' relieved him 
 of his spurs and riding-boots, and the stately Smith 
 brought us drinks. 
 
 " Did the Creole with the highfalutin Spanish 
 title rob you ? " 
 
 Rafael laughed. " It hardly amounts to robbery ; 
 the Government does not pay them, so we must, I 
 suppose. However, I did a trade with him. You 
 know that, unless we keep in with them, the officials 
 have a little way of drafting our labourers into 
 their opera houffe army. His Excellency sug- 
 gested that I might with advantage make a small 
 loan to the Government. I told him that the 
 Government was far off, while he was very near, 
 and that in England they say that charity begins 
 at home. His Excellency smoothed his moustache 
 and remarked that it, the motto, was good and 
 appropriate to the moment, I replied that the 
 name of his Excellency stood high for dignity and 
 honour. His Excellency said that I was very kind. 
 Not at all, said I, but I feared whether a little pro- 
 posal I had in mind would offend his Excellency. 
 His Excellency begged me to believe that he would 
 surely understand. I therefore offered him fifty sols 
 for every labourer he could turn over to me from 
 the army. Net result : his Excellency pockets five 
 thousand sols, and I get a hundred labourers,"
 
 A CHANGE OF HEART 237 
 
 " Thus do all things work together for the good of 
 those who own the land." 
 
 " An irreverent jape, my dear Tony, but good 
 Physiocratic doctrine." 
 
 " The Physiocratic movement was a delightful 
 comedy," 
 
 " There's a lot to be said for it. Look at it how 
 you will, we all instinctively realize that the owner- 
 ship and cultivation of the land is altogether superior 
 to industrialism." 
 
 " A habit of mind formed by tradition. The head 
 of the tribe owned the land ; it was a concomitant 
 of his majesty. Ever since, we have associated land- 
 ownership with social dignity and power." 
 
 " Fudge ! It's because we draw our necessities 
 out of the land, and he who owns or controls it is 
 king. And that's not all ; from time immemorial 
 there have been well-understood social duties as well 
 as rights assigned to owners of the land." 
 
 " Likewise fudge ! These duties were mere allures 
 to extract rent. The landlords have always in- 
 stinctively known that the extraction of rent is 
 fundamentally immoral, so they have wrapped it 
 up in a napkin of social responsibility. The land- 
 owner draws rent, and his wife gives blankets. A 
 salve to the conscience. I do it myself ! " 
 
 "So do I ; but you forget that you do not pay 
 wages. You pay maintenance ; it is the labourer's 
 point of view. For example, I do not contract to 
 pay hospital charges. If I refused, they would think 
 it strange. An industrial wage-earner expects to 
 pay his own doctor. No ; we must regard ourselves 
 as tribal patriarchs and act accordin'."
 
 238 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 " Oddly enough, I learnt my first lesson on 
 economic rent from an Irish landlord. The Irish 
 landlords' idea of social duties is to crack jokes with 
 their tenants and go hunting with them. I met him 
 at Carlsbad. I won some money from him at ecarte. 
 ' Take the money, my boy,' said he, ' but it's hard 
 on my poor tenants, so it is.' ' How so ? ' I asked, 
 ' Well, ye see, it affects me mental vision when I 
 come to consider the rent reduction.' ' What prin- 
 ciples do you act upon, anyway ? ' ' Faith, it's 
 simple enough, I find out what they have earnt 
 during the last year. If they've done well, I gener- 
 ously reduce the rent ten per cent, ; if badly, why, 
 twenty or mebbe twenty-five,' ' But if they've 
 done well, why reduce it at all ? ' ' We must always 
 maintain our reputation for generosity, so we fixed 
 the original rent with an eye to regular reductions. 
 It's a great notion. When I announce a reduction, 
 I feel the wings sproutin' out of me shoulder-blades. 
 Let's go and look at the fat Jews gurglin' the beastty 
 water. Man, dear, I'm thankful there's none of 
 them in Ireland,' ' It's just as well ; they'd see 
 through the rent reduction dodge,' " 
 
 Rafael sat silent and pensive for some time. I 
 think he was a little troubled in spirit. Sprung 
 from the governing class, his spirit finely tempered 
 by good breeding and an exceptional culture, the 
 cynical attitude of the Irish aristocrat hurt him. 
 
 " The Irish landlords have had their rewards," he 
 finally remarked, " But their devilish indifference 
 only throws into bolder relief the old Physiocratic 
 ideal. The Physiocrats harped perpetually on duty. 
 Apart from capital outlay — the ' avances fonciercs,'
 
 A CHANGE OF HEART 239 
 
 in their jargon — the landowners must carry great 
 responsibilities and respond readily to social duties. 
 They are to be stewards of the national wealth. 
 They must devote their leisure and their best efforts 
 to furthering the general interest ; their services to 
 society must be gratuitous. And they must bear 
 the whole burden of taxation." 
 
 " Yes ; they were the first single-taxers. I had 
 that in mind when I described the Physiocratic 
 movement as a comedy. The modern single-taxer 
 wants a land tax to dislodge the landlord ; the 
 Physiocrats wanted it to secure the maintenance 
 of their system." 
 
 " But they were right and Henry George was 
 wrong. Obviously, the tax-payers would dictate 
 policy ; for where the tax-payers are, there you will 
 discover economic power." 
 
 "My dear Rafael, you're a generation behind the 
 times. The economically strong habitually shift 
 taxation on to the shoulders of the economically 
 weak." 
 
 " They try, but they don't succeed. 'Cos why ? 
 They have the money and the other fellows haven't. 
 If you look more closely into it, you will be con- 
 vinced that taxation disputes are between the 
 different moneyed classes, each class possessing what 
 the bureaucrat calls ' taxable capacity ' — landlord, 
 manufacturer, brewer, farmer, tradesman. The 
 bulk of the population in England and elsewhere 
 lives on a small margin. Invade that margin and 
 bang goes purchasing capacity, and that hits all the 
 exploiting classes — first the tradesman, then the 
 manufacturer, and last the landlord. Of course, I
 
 240 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 don't defend it, but I am attracted by the Physio- 
 cratic doctrine that duties necessarily inhere in 
 property." 
 
 " It depends upon what you mean by duty. If 
 duty be a spontaneous response to some call, then 
 it is not related to the routine of propertied life. 
 However well ordered such routine may be, it 
 nevertheless remains a defence of property and 
 status. It may be duty to one's own order, but 
 that is a far cry from duty to society, as a 
 whole. This war has taught us that noblesse oblige 
 is a quality of the spirit and not of property. 
 My own Quaker ancestors have known it from the 
 beginning." 
 
 " I fear," remarked Rafael, with a touch of regret, 
 " that the fundamental assumption of the Physio- 
 crats was wrong. They argued that the landed 
 proprietors were of a ' natural order.' It would be 
 rather nice, my dear Tony, if you and I belonged to 
 a natural order, and were, therefore, beyond justifica- 
 tion or reproach ; then we could always do what we 
 jolly well liked." 
 
 " We don't, and there's an end on't. The Physio- 
 crats had no sense of humour, or they would have 
 listened to Voltaire and Rousseau." 
 
 " I fancy Voltaire smelt Mother Church in the 
 movement. They were all either good Catholics or 
 politically committed that way. And, of course, 
 property in the eyes of the Church was sacred. Gide 
 makes a queer comment on this point. I'll just look 
 it up. Here it is : ' We shall encounter this cult of 
 property even during the terrible days of the French 
 Revolution and the Reign of Terror. When all
 
 A CHANGE OF HEART 241 
 
 respect for human life was quite lost, there still 
 remained this respect for property.' " 
 
 "Of course! The French Revolution was not 
 an attack on property ; it was a protest against the 
 theory that land is a more sacred form of property 
 than hardware. The next revolution, imminent 
 before the war, will be a proclamation that labour is 
 more sacred than both land and hardware." 
 
 " That, my dear Tony, would not be a revolution ; 
 it would be a new epoch. Revolutions come either 
 with force or the threat of force, but a new epoch is 
 when God says, 'Let there be light, and we are all 
 suddenly reminiscent of the departed dark age. It 
 is His greatest miracle. A change of civilization's 
 heart ! " 
 
 " I am prepared to pray for it — but without much 
 confidence. It is difficult to forget that the same 
 God ordained that there should be no light without 
 heat. Doesn't the heat come first ? " 
 
 " Oh, ye of little faith ! But, you know, mankind 
 is ready for a change of heart. The Physiocrats un- 
 consciously proved it. Remember that they were 
 the first to evolve any kind of political economy. 
 (Adam Smith intended to dedicate his book to 
 Quesnay, but the Frenchman died too soon.) Society 
 hung together by vague religious sanctions which 
 were wearing thin. Voltaire was asking searching 
 questions, and there was none to answer him. Even 
 the Contrat Social, although remote, created a feeling 
 of uneasiness. And then came Quesnay and his 
 group with their delightfully welcome announcement 
 that the proprietors were properly in possession ; 
 that it was the will of God ; that it was the ' natural
 
 242 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 order.' If it were not thoroughly established as a 
 fact, no one nowadays would believe that Quesnay's 
 Tableau Economique created an extraordinary furore 
 and enthusiastic acclamation. It was the voice of 
 a god. Mirabeau declared it was one of the three 
 greatest inventions in the world, the other two being 
 the invention of writing and the invention of money. 
 The Abbe Baudeau was assured that all Europe 
 would accept its teaching, to the eternal glory of the 
 invention and the everlasting happiness of mankind. 
 Hector Denis ranked it with the discovery of the 
 circulation of the blood. Even Turgot fell a victim. 
 My point is that all this feverish joy over a new 
 doctrine meant that everybody was waiting for an 
 assurance — for a modern Messiah, if you will. The 
 Jews are not the only people willing to accept the 
 Messianic idea." 
 
 " You must bear in mind that the Physiocrats 
 proclaimed the divinity of the existing order. If 
 somebody came along with a similar assurance to- 
 day, I might be equally elated. But suppose 
 Quesnay had hit the proprietors as hard as he soft- 
 soaped them, what then ? " 
 
 " True ; but it does not affect my point. You see, 
 they justified their extortions on a fallible authority. 
 The next step was to discover the infalhbility. They 
 now had builded, well or ill, on human and not on 
 divine authority. That is a tremendous step. In- 
 stead of an oracle, it becomes a working hypothesis. 
 Let the true formula be found and mankind will go 
 crusading. Find that formula and I will guarantee 
 the soundness of mankind's heart." 
 
 " I hope you are right ; but I remember that, from
 
 A CHANGE OF HEART 243 
 
 Adam Smith down, all the economists have based 
 themselves upon the substantial equity of things as 
 they are, Thorold Rogers is the exception, and he 
 is not ' good form,' for some reason I could never 
 fathom. Even Marx sees labour as a commodity — 
 a theory which for a century has not only degraded 
 the manual workers, but the thinkers and the 
 preachers." 
 
 Again Rafael remained silent, puffing vigorously 
 at his pipe. It is delightful to be with a man who, 
 whatever his predilections, will listen and give weight 
 to what you say. With all his knowledge and 
 experience he is modest. His motto might well be 
 taken from Hannah's song : " Talk no more exceed- 
 ing proudly ; let not arrogancy come out of your 
 mouth." The lengthened shadows merged into 
 darkness, the whinny of a horse sounded from the 
 paddock, the doves cooed in their cotes, the birds 
 nestled in silence ; from my angle of the verandah 
 I could just descry the evening star. Smith stole ' 
 in with the lamps, and almost simultaneously the 
 mountain-side and valley became jewelled with 
 cottage lights, that first glimmered uncertainly and 
 then glowed steady. Down the winding road an 
 Indian loped his way, his lantern swinging with slow 
 rhythm. 
 
 Rafael at length spoke, almost solemnly. 
 
 " Do you know, Tony, the rejection — the in- 
 dignant rejection — of the present creed that labour 
 is a commodity — a thing to be ranked with manure 
 and horse-carts — might well mark a new epoch. I 
 really hadn't thought about it before. I had 
 accepted it as obvious and practical. But when I
 
 244 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 examine it and even dimly realize its implications, I 
 both see and feel that it is a damnable thing. It is 
 not a creed, or even a theory ; it is an obsession. 
 An obsession implies a siege, a surrounding by the 
 enemy. To set the people free from it ! I stand 
 by what I said : they are ready. I shall grow pro- 
 phetic in a moment ! It reminds me of Moses at 
 the well of Beer. Do you remember the passage : 
 ' Gather the people together, and I will give them 
 water.' Then sang Israel this song : 
 
 Spring up, O well ; sing ye unto it : 
 The well which the princes digged, 
 
 Which the nobles of the people delved, 
 With the sceptre and with their staves. 
 
 Great ! Let's dress for dinner to-night and split a 
 bottle of fizz. I feel like celebrating. Hum ! Ha ! 
 Guests will wear their orders ! " 
 
 Now that I have recorded our conversation, I 
 wonder whether you will be bored when reading it. 
 Perhaps it sounds commonplace in your modern age. 
 But, to an old fogey like myself, it was both delightful 
 and thrilling to watch a new idea germinate in Don 
 Rafael's mind. Nor did I do all the giving. I got 
 more than I gave. I touched his torch and felt a 
 new faith in the possibilities of the human soul and 
 the willingness of mankind to mount high. This 
 strong and clean man transmits faith — the substance 
 of things hoped for — with a smiling assurance not to 
 be resisted. 
 
 Your affectionate uncle, 
 
 Anthony Farley.
 
 XXIV : A PARLIAMENTARY SPEECH 
 
 My dear George, 
 
 Dawdling over tea yesterday afternoon I told 
 Rafael the story of Richard Tudor. He remarked 
 that such cases are so numerous as to render them 
 almost familiar, but none the less shocking. He 
 said that such waste was tragic. He was emphatic 
 that neither the Liberals nor Tories would have 
 treated one of their best men so scurvily. I told 
 him that in the Labour and Socialist groups it was 
 the rule rather than the exception to knife any 
 promising man who does not toe the official line. 
 
 "With the result," said Rafael, "that they 
 haven't enough brains among them to seize their 
 opportunities. The political and economic compli- 
 cations arising out of the war gave them brilliant 
 chances. I couldn't count all those chances on my 
 fingers and toes. Yet not one has been taken. They 
 might have been a little clique of Plymouth Brethren." 
 
 " Wee Frees, judging by the Scotchiness of their 
 leaders." 
 
 " Broadly put, they had two main lines of action — 
 political and industrial. After the Coalition they 
 could have seized the Front Opposition Bench and 
 boldly assumed the role of chief critic of the Govern- 
 ment. Did they do it ? They let that passe 
 charlatan Chaplin become Opposition Leader, sup- 
 ported by rejected and disgruntled Ministers. By 
 Jove ! I wish I'd been there ! Once seated there, 
 they could have made terms with the Government 
 on behalf of their own people that would have opened 
 up vast vistas. What did they do ? Their leader 
 
 245
 
 246 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 made some piffling criticisms of Grey's diplomacy, 
 and talked poppycock about international fraternity. 
 I wonder if he would fire off the same speech at a 
 burglar who entered his bedroom." 
 
 " He'd crawl under the sheet." 
 
 " Assuming, however, there were good reasons for 
 not storming the Front Opposition Bench and pro- 
 claiming themselves the alternative Government, 
 and assuming further that soHd support of the 
 Government was their proper cue, hadn't they 
 enough nous among them to exact terms? Not 
 they. They did what they were told like servile 
 worms. Perhaps no intelligent person would care 
 to be associated with them." 
 
 " Make to me the speech you might have made as 
 Labour Leader of the Opposition." 
 
 Rafael laughed. " You're not a-talking shop, are 
 you, Tony ? " 
 
 " Tm perfectly serious," I answered. 
 
 He was leaning lightly against the rail of the 
 verandah, shoulders well back, arms folded, his left- 
 hand fingers twiddling an ancient pipe. " If you 
 won't think me a pompous ass ..." 
 
 "I won't; on the contrary, I shall be very grateful." 
 
 His brows puckered in thought for a minute or 
 two, while I lit another cigar. Then, leaning slightly 
 in my direction, Rafael made his one and only 
 Parliamentary speech.^ 
 
 " Mr Speaker, — The House is entitled to an ex- 
 planation why my honourable friends and myself, 
 not being of the Privy Council, have occupied this 
 
 ^ Tetnp. 191 5.
 
 A PARLIAMENTARY SPEECH 247 
 
 Bench. I am glad to explain our reasons, both to 
 the House and to the country. Let me say with 
 emphasis that it is an explanation and not an apo- 
 logy — unless you construe the word in its original 
 meaning. 
 
 " Sir, we are here because we are the only alter- 
 native Government. The two orthodox political 
 parties have coalesced that they may secure the 
 maximum of efficiency and of unity. Should they 
 fail, it would not mean the defeat of our country, but 
 only of the existing order of society. Should they 
 fail — I pray for their success — then we shall, without 
 hesitation, take up the task they relinquish and 
 prosecute the war to a successful issue. 
 
 " While conscious of our responsibility, we assume 
 it readily. Indeed, it is quite to our liking. For it 
 is a sign that the nation has reached a new valuation 
 of the work of the world. We now know that un- 
 remitting and skilled labour in factories and foundries 
 is as essential to victory as that valour in battle 
 which is natural to us, which is our precious heritage. 
 If, then, the Government represents that old England, 
 so rich in its traditions, so majestic in its power, we 
 on this side represent a new England and a new 
 Empire, equally rich in new renderings of the old 
 traditions, equally majestic in a new power that shall 
 conquer the world, not by force of arms, but by a 
 reasoned — an inspired — application of human fellow- 
 ship. The realities of war have taught us how 
 victory must be achieved ; we shall not forget the 
 lesson when peace comes. 
 
 " We on this side of the House no longer stand for 
 that narrow class interest formerly known as Labour
 
 248 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 — an interest which excluded the non-manual 
 workers. Personally, I have always regarded class 
 representation in this House as a prostitution of the 
 high purpose to which we are ca]led. I have re- 
 sented it, whether such representation came from 
 railway directors or railway servants, whether from 
 shipbuilders or shipwrights. If before the war we 
 were as guilty as you in fostering class interests here, 
 I now declare, without recrimination, that we have 
 passed beyond that evil. In good time we shall 
 evolve the appropriate machinery for the economic 
 governance of our people — a new rendering of a great 
 mediaeval tradition — and so dedicate anew the work 
 of this Parliament to the development of those 
 spiritual elements without which no great nation can 
 continue great. It is as true now as in ancient days 
 that we live by Tght even as by bread. ' The people 
 which sat in darkness saw a great light, and to them 
 which sat in the region and shadow of death, to them 
 did light spring up.' 
 
 " In this stupendous crisis, when the destinies of 
 the nations are in the balance, let me in no equivocal 
 terms declare that we are at one with the Govern- 
 ment in our determination to win this war. Nothing 
 that we can do will remain undone in pursuit of that 
 object. This war has blown to atoms many of our 
 most cherished hopes. We dreamt of a world- 
 federation, in which there would be ample play for 
 divergent and even opposed ideals. An autocracy, 
 entrenched (as are all autocracies) by an army 
 strong enough to enforce its will on a docile people, 
 has staked its hazard. Against our hopes and our 
 principles, the God of War must decide. It is hateful
 
 A PARLIAMENTARY SPEECH 249 
 
 to us, but nothing remains save to win through, let 
 the cost be what it may. We agree that the Govern- 
 ment had no option but to fight for Belgium, but we 
 now recognize that our entrance into the war was 
 inevitable. This is the third great crisis in our 
 history. The first was when we freed ourselves from 
 the European comity and determined to revolve on 
 our own Protestant axis. The second was when we 
 successfully resisted the imposition upon ourselves 
 and our colonies of the Code Napoleon. We shall 
 resist with equal success every attempt to impose 
 upon us the code of Prussian Kultur, which, in its 
 practical aspects, presupposes an omnipotent bureau- 
 cracy. After all, sir, dispossessed though our work- 
 ing population may be of land and houses, this, 
 nevertheless, is their country, their homeland. I 
 have heard it said that the Tyrolese peasants who 
 emigrate find that they must return home or die of 
 nostalgia. Many of us know under what harsh con- 
 ditions, both of Nature and of government, they 
 labour. Is this country any less sacred to our own 
 people, even though they be made of sterner stuff ? 
 ^ Anglia irredenta! ' is now the cry of their hearts. 
 Be careful how you thwart them ! You have trained 
 them in the art of war. 
 
 " I take this opportunity to warn particularly the 
 Minister of Munitions that in the long-drawn struggle 
 before us we do not intend to be put upon. This is 
 our war as much as his, and, unless he frankly co- 
 operates with us, we shall teach him a lesson which 
 even his legion of obsequious scribblers will under- 
 stand. We are not impressed with his platform 
 pyrotechnics, his exhibitions of cheap courage and
 
 250 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 affected plain speech. We are not deceived. For 
 we know that colossal fortunes are being made out 
 of the nation's necessities, and the Minister of Muni- 
 tions remains a dumb dog. Indeed, we are not sure 
 whether the Minister is not exploiting the political 
 situation to his own advantage. Less talk and more 
 humility would better become him. I would remind 
 him that when the gods on high fall they fall far. 
 We have satisfied ourselves that the vast mass of the 
 workers at home are doing their utmost. They are 
 doing it cheerfully and without the excitement and 
 stimulus of active warfare. ' Munition strain ' and 
 ' munition fatigue ' have now passed into medical 
 terminology, and that fact alone refutes the Minister's 
 false philippics. 
 
 " To-morrow I shall ask the Prime Minister what 
 provisions the Government has in mind for the direct 
 victims of the war — the wounded, the widows and 
 orphans. Lest he and his colleagues are thinking of 
 basing this work on the ancient precedents of parsi- 
 mony and meanness, I hasten to inform him that we 
 shall not tolerate for a single day the prospect of an 
 army of military mendicants when peace has been 
 declared. We have already called to the colours 
 more than three million men, and we shall require 
 five millions to win. Sir, it is prodigious. This 
 voluntary army is the envy and admiration of the 
 world. But our arrangements for the care and com- 
 fort of those who sacrificed themselves must be on 
 an equally great scale. If there is to be poverty in 
 the land, at least it must not be the price that men 
 have paid for their wounds, and widows and children 
 for their breadwinners. I may be told that the
 
 A PARLIAMENTARY SPEECH 251 
 
 terms were duly set before the men when they en- 
 listed. I hope nobody will have the effrontery to 
 suggest that the minimum terms thus guaranteed 
 relieve us from further liability. It will be our duty 
 to see to it that this minimum does not become the 
 maximum. I do not doubt that there will be many 
 cases of abuse, be the terms liberal or mean. The 
 United States Pension List is a case in point. But 
 the American people have never grudged it, and their 
 retired soldiers have proved themselves self-respecting 
 citizens. There is a type of busybody much too 
 prevalent in this country who seizes upon every 
 weakness — a soldier's drunken widow, an occasional 
 fraud or what not — making it an excuse for stinginess 
 or impudent interference in the private affairs of the 
 pensioners. Perhaps it may be necessary to hang a 
 few of these interlopers from prominent lamp-posts. 
 At all events, we in this House must take a broad and 
 long view of an unprecedented situation, and bid the 
 charity-mongers begone. 
 
 " Already the anguished cries of the sore stricken 
 have gone up into our ears ; we are agreed that these 
 have the first charge upon our care. Less poignant, 
 but even more important, will be the problem of 
 industrial reorganization after the war. We cannot 
 return to the status quo ante helium. What, then, are 
 the lines upon which we must proceed ? The sudden 
 displacement of five mill on industrial workers is an 
 event so stupendous that its impUcations transcend 
 our vision. At least we know this : the producers of 
 wealth will dominate the consumers. Those who 
 neither toil nor spin and yet expect to live softly will 
 receive a rude awakening. I do not agree that war
 
 252 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 is a test of national greatness ; nor do I acquiesce in 
 the extraordinary opinion expressed in this House by 
 an honourable i\Iember, just returned from the horrors 
 of the Dardanelles, that war is the greatest of sports. 
 But the strain imposed upon us by a great war is 
 at least a searching test of our practical qualities. 
 Heaven knows that my party makes no kind of pre- 
 tence to have a panacea for the evils that lie before us. 
 We know one thing, however : that organized labour 
 must now be taken definitely into partnership ; that 
 there must be a correlation of the productive elements 
 of our national life. There is a celebrated passage 
 in Saint-Simon's Parahole Politique which, with your 
 permission, sir, I will read. It gives some inkling 
 of my meaning. ' Imagine that France retains all her 
 men of genius, whether in the arts and sciences or in 
 the crafts and industries, but has the misfortune to 
 lose on the same day the King's brother, the Duke of 
 Angouleme, and all the other members of the Royal 
 family ; all the Privy Councillors ; all the great 
 officers of the Crown ; all Ministers of State ; all the 
 Masters of Requests ; all the marshals, cardinals, 
 archbishops, bishops, grand vicars, and canons ; all 
 prefects and sub-prefects ; all Government employees ; 
 all the judges ; and on top of that a hundred thousand 
 proprietors — the cream of her nobility. Such an 
 overwhelming catastrophe would certainly aggrieve 
 the French, for they are a kindly disposed nation. 
 But the loss of a hundred and thirty thousand of the 
 best reputed individuals in the State would give rise 
 to sorrow of a purely sentimental kind. It would 
 not cause the community the least inconvenience.' 
 I trust that I do not entertain any bloodthirsty senti-
 
 A PARLIAMENTARY SPEECH 253 
 
 ments to our own nobility — such as it is — but it is 
 well to warn them that there will be only room in the 
 new order of society for genuine workers. When you 
 have called in the Trade Unions you cannot stop 
 there. You must bring in the brain-workers too. 
 You must, in fact, inaugurate a new Guild system, 
 from which wagery is linally eliminated. Your re- 
 turning soldiers having received pay will not willingly 
 go back to wages. 
 
 " I hope that the Government will spontaneously 
 call us into its confidence. Should it not do so, it 
 may be necessary to stimulate its spontaneity ! We 
 want a real and not an artificial unity. But it will 
 be artificial and dangerous unless ^he workers are 
 brought to the council-board by right and not by 
 favour or condescension. Providing such unity be 
 reached, then, sir, I declare that we can walk with 
 confidence in the black night, knowing in our hearts 
 that soon the day will break and the shadows flee 
 away." 
 
 Rafael rose to speak in the late afternoon. The 
 House seemed sombre, its members all dressed in 
 mourning. Messengers, with their silver badges and 
 chains, flitted noiselessly in and out. Members for 
 the most part sat staring up at the painted glass 
 ceiling through which the electric light came just 
 when Rafael was warning the Minister of Munitions 
 of the fate of the fallen gods. The House, now lighted, 
 showed Ministers leaning forward and following every 
 word of the speaker with tense expectancy. The 
 Prime Minister, hands in pockets, watched Rafael 
 closely, as though measuring the strength and skill
 
 254 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 of a fellow-duellist. Mr Balfour seemed to appraise 
 the speech by Uterary canons. There were no cheers 
 nor cries of dissent. Rafael sat down in a silence 
 almost solemn, as though his auditors had lapsed 
 into the thrilled quiet that comes upon us at the 
 appearance of a new portent. No one rose to reply, 
 and the House adjourned. In the buzz of animated 
 conversation that followed Rafael slipped away. 
 Taking my arm, we together left the House through 
 the St Stephen's passage and found ourselves walking 
 along the Embankment. We finally turned up into 
 the Temple Gardens and so into Fleet Street. We 
 went into the " Cock " for a chop, and sat waiting. 
 Then Rafael smiled. 
 
 " Tell me, Tony, did I make my meaning clear ? " 
 " Clear ! As a great comet blazoned on a moon- 
 less horizon." 
 
 • • » • • • • 
 
 The cHnk of spurs on the cobbled paths brought me 
 back to reality. Rafael's pipe still hung pendulous 
 in his fingers, but his head was turned sharply 
 towards the verandah door, apparently sensing some- 
 thing unusual. The door opened, a soldier walked 
 up, saluted and handed Rafael a letter. He turned 
 to me. " A moment, please," and opened the 
 envelope. Evidently a letter of some importance. 
 He read it ; then deliberately turned it over and 
 read it again more slowly. He thanked the soldier 
 graciously, and offered him hospitality. The soldier 
 responded gratefully and sought entertainment in 
 the kitchen. 
 
 " A revolution has begun on the Pacific Coast," 
 said Rafael. " Arms have been imported from San
 
 A PARLIAMENTARY SPEECH 255 
 
 Francisco, and some of the western towns are in the 
 hands of the insurgents. Old Don Balthazar has 
 been clapped into prison, and seven cadets at the 
 Mihtary College have been shot — to encourage the 
 others, I suppose. The Government has seized the 
 railway and telegraph stations. It has suppressed 
 all the papers except El Liberal, which is its official 
 organ. War seems contagious, eh ? " 
 
 "I'm not precisely surprised," I answered. " We 
 heard down our way that Carranza intended giving 
 your president a shaking for backing Villa and 
 Zapata." 
 
 " Likely enough," said Rafael. " Governments, 
 like individuals, pursue the vendetta." 
 
 " This will give you cause for anxiety. I'm at 
 your disposal. If de trop, pack me off ; if I can be 
 useful, command me." 
 
 " Lawks-a-mussy, there ain't no blooming hurry ! 
 In a few days I shall probably hear something from 
 the other side. Let's wait. Meantime, I'm hungry 
 as a hunter." 
 
 " Dinner is served," announced the portly Smith. 
 
 A day to be remembered ! 
 
 Your affectionate uncle, 
 
 Anthony Farley.
 
 XXV: A SOCIALIST ORATOR 
 
 My dear George, 
 
 Although Rafael is vivacious and debonair, I 
 know that he must be anxious about the revolution, 
 whose raucous mutterings draw closer, if we may 
 judge from excited rumour. It would be no joke for 
 a gang of predatory rebels to bear down on this 
 magnificent estate. Depend upon it, Rafael's price- 
 less live stock would disappear. I suspect, however, 
 that he is concerting plans, both political and de- 
 fensive. I know that he will speak when he has any- 
 thing definite to tell me, so, in the meantime, I 
 endeavour, as judiciously as possible, to distract his 
 thoughts from a peril that may actually impend, or 
 may be already dissipated. And if you don't hear 
 from me again, you may conclude that neither Rafael 
 nor I got away in time. 
 
 After breakfast to-day we both seemed disposed 
 to lounge. It was raining, and when it rains it rains. 
 So we stayed indoors and gossiped. Rafael inquired 
 about a number of men, some of whom seemed pro- 
 mising twenty years ago, while others had already 
 put their brilliant futures behind them. Most of the 
 old coterie were politicals, so it was inevitable that 
 we should finally drift into politics. At Oxford, 
 Rafael was influenced by T. H. Green. He now 
 realized that Green's philosophy was inapplicable 
 to modern facts. It was, in fact. Green's personal 
 influence, half saintly, half robust, that counted. 
 He next transferred his allegiance to John Morley, 
 whose Compromise was just then all the rage. Rose- 
 bery he knew too well either to Hke or trust. But 
 
 256
 
 A SOCIALIST ORATOR 257 
 
 leadership was not a necessity to Rafael. He was, 
 even as a young man, strong enough to walk alone. 
 He had dreams of some higher synthesis linking 
 modern Radicalism with Socialism. He found, 
 however, on closer acquaintance, that Radicalism 
 had no basis, intellectual or social, while Socialism, 
 even then, was forking — one shoot leading straight 
 to bureaucracy, the other to the wilderness, to 
 sterility. Above all, he found to his dismay that the 
 Socialists did no serious reading, and were living on 
 mere scraps of fugitive writings. Although they were 
 voluble and plausible, they were the least knowledge- 
 able of all his political associates. They lived on 
 formulas, argued from formulae, mistook formulae for 
 principles. Even at that early date, he had observed 
 that the Socialist movement was becoming a vested 
 interest ; that there was a sinister financial side to it. 
 But as the other parties were ten times worse, he 
 attached small importance to it. 
 
 " On the whole," said Rafael, " the thing that did 
 most harm to the Socialist movement was the Fabian 
 tract Facts for Socialists. From that time on 
 Socialism became an affair of peptonized assertions. 
 Every Socialist quoted this tract, and never realized 
 what a shadowy relation it had to the actual currents 
 of thought and action." 
 
 " I remember," said I, laughing, " some fellow was 
 continually writing the most revolutionary senti- 
 ments over the nom de plume of ' Physiocrat ' ! 
 And what's more amusing, nobody ever picked him 
 up on the point." 
 
 " No doubt he had read some sentence from some 
 Physiocratic writer that took his fancy."
 
 258 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 " Do you remember that in your Parliament speech 
 you quoted something that seemed terribly revolu- 
 tionary from Saint-Simon ? There used to be a 
 group of Socialists who called themselves Saint- 
 Simonians. They never once found out that their 
 patron saint was one of the first of the Manchester 
 school." 
 
 " Isn't that putting it rather strong ? " 
 
 " I don't think so. It is curious that Socialists 
 quote him as a Socialist, but I doubt if he had the 
 slightest conception of Socialism. He wrote about 
 the transformation of private property, which sounds 
 SociaUst ; but really what he contended for was 
 productive property — in other words, capital. He 
 regarded private property as the basis of the social 
 fabric. Then he talked and wrote about organizing 
 society to secure the greatest advantage to the 
 greatest number. But then so did Bentham. In 
 the Parabole Politique, from which you quoted, he 
 regards the savants, industrial leaders, bankers, and 
 merchants as the true governors who wield power. 
 That is precisely the Manchester attitude. Cobden 
 might have quoted what you quoted." 
 
 "Then I am undone ! " laughed Rafael. 
 
 " Not a bit of it ! Personally, I have always had a 
 sneaking regard for Cobden. But worse remains to 
 be told : Saint-Simon was the archpriest of laissez- 
 faire. To him, industrial life was everything ; the 
 State was a mere fagade." 
 
 " Better call him a Syndicalist and be done 
 with it." 
 
 " Don't mind if I do. He was a capitalist- 
 syndicalist. Even yet I have not completed the tale
 
 A SOCIALIST ORATOR 259 
 
 of his iniquities : he was anti-democratic. The 
 industrial chiefs had to do everything ; the workers 
 must be quiescent and docile. He was the founder 
 of German bureaucratic Kultur." 
 
 " To think I quoted such a scoundrel ! " 
 
 " The fact is that Saint-Simon was a natural re- 
 action from Quesnay. To Quesnay, land was the 
 sacred thing ; to Saint-Simon it was industry. 
 Both men had distinguished followers, who in- 
 fluenced the course of French politics. Quesnay had 
 Baudeau, Mirabeau, and Turgot. Saint-Simon had 
 the brothers Pereire, Michel Chevalier, and Enfantin, 
 Here is a curious fact : Enfantin negotiated the i860 
 Treaty with Great Britain, and, unless my memory 
 plays me false, the British delegate was Cobden." 
 
 "Birds of a feather! " 
 
 " No doubt a pure coincidence, as the defaulting 
 cashier observed when the missing cash-box was 
 found on the same train." 
 
 " When you come to think of it, the real truth is 
 that the Socialist and political economist are bark- 
 ing up different trees. The Socialist talks rather 
 grandiloquently about political economy ; but he 
 is really only a social economist." 
 
 " Then why the deuce doesn't he say so ? " 
 
 " There are really two unrelated answers. First, 
 the social economist rather plumes himself that his 
 proposals are sound from the politico-economic 
 standpoint, and he has a fond ambition to be accepted 
 as a political economist, which is regarded as the 
 higher branch of the profession. The second answer 
 is purely human ; those in revolt are ex hypothcsi 
 the victims ; presumably, therefore, they have had
 
 26o LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 few opportunities. They are, in consequence, com- 
 pelled to live on intellectual scraps. We must not 
 blame them if they make the most of their little 
 learning. Don't let us be prigs ; we're in danger 
 of it." 
 
 " No ; I don't think I'm a prig : I've always 
 prided myself that I'm not. Probably it is my Irish 
 blood, which demands logic and consistency. What 
 I dislike is the pretence, the affectation of special 
 knowledge. If a man says that he has been too much 
 on the grind to learn much, but that he knows where 
 the shoe pinches, that's the man I respect. If I 
 reply that, by good luck, my shoe does not pinch, 
 but that I can help him because I have acquired some 
 knowledge of shoes and their various kinds of pinches, 
 and the man says that he'll work with me to abolish 
 shoe-pinching, we are both performing a public 
 duty. Knowledge and experience have joined forces. 
 There's nothing priggish about that. But no sooner 
 do we get going on our great anti-shoe-pinching 
 crusade than up pops another fellow, who has read 
 the celebrated Fabian tract Facts for the Shoe- 
 pinched. He says to my colleague : ' Be careful ; 
 be on your guard. Farley's shoes do not pinch him, 
 so what does he know about it ? Now, not only do 
 I know it by experience, but I have read Facts for 
 the Shoe-pinched. You may trust me. But these 
 middle-class chaps have you every time.' That is 
 pretence — and cunning pretence, too ; for at the 
 back of it lies a pohtical job. The result is that I'm 
 squeezed out, and the great crusade languishes from 
 sheer intellectual inanition. The mental poverty of 
 the poor is their destruction."
 
 A SOCIALIST ORATOR 261 
 
 " My dear Tony, we must be gentle and tolerant. 
 Even the upstart who has read a bit may be pre- 
 sumed to have good intentions. Did you ever hear 
 of George Satterthwaite ? No ? When I think of 
 him, I'm tolerant. But I am permitted to smile. 
 George was born of godly parents. Every Sunday, 
 Old George and his missus went punctually to the 
 Baptist Chapel. Old George believed that to be a 
 Christian was to be lucky. He liked to quote from 
 the Bible that being once young and now old he had 
 never seen the righteous forsaken nor his seed beg 
 bread. Old George hedged and ditched for a cousin 
 of mine, and had never seen a railway. Young 
 George came to his parents rather late. He was still 
 young when they were old. My cousin took a fancy 
 to the youngster, and had him taught the proverbial 
 three R's. Then, begad, young George taught in 
 Sunday school. Old George had visions of his son 
 becoming a ' pastor.' Gradually, young George 
 acquired the gift of the gab. He developed ' unction.' 
 
 " Come we now to Chapter Two. The Independent 
 Labour Party had just begun operations. Of course, 
 you remember the Manningham strike. Some tra- 
 velling agitator persuaded George that Christ was 
 the first Socialist. Scripture texts floated in George's 
 mind that seemed to prove it. So George became a 
 Christian Socialist. He began to speak at street- 
 corners, and the crowd listened. He wrote to the 
 village schoolmaster that the common people heard 
 him gladly. Meantime the builder had told my 
 cousin that Young George had gone dotty on Social- 
 ism, or some such crazy nonsense, and was neglecting 
 his work. When the schoolmaster told the Squire
 
 262 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 about the common people hearing George gladly, the 
 Squire said : ' Tell George not to make a fool of 
 himself.' Which words were duly reported to 
 George. George felt hurt. He had some thoughts 
 of writing to the Squire to remonstrate. But George 
 comforted himself with the thought that he was 
 blessed when men should revile him and say all 
 manner of evil things about him. He would bear it 
 for the ' cause.' It is difficult to tell you in measured 
 language about the next awful thing that befell our 
 hero. It is really too dreadful. Forgive my blushes. 
 Can you stand it, Tony ? Well, then, the Baptist 
 pastor of George's chapel was a Liberal. Don't 
 laugh ! I assure you it was quite tragical. You 
 couldn't expect George to stand it, could you ? Fate 
 ordained that the Labour Church should open its 
 portals on Sunday afternoons and evenings. With 
 an eye on that pastorate, George went to the Baptist 
 Chapel on Sunday mornings ; but on Sunday 
 evenings he went to the Labour Church. Incident- 
 ally, there was a girl there, who sang in the choir. 
 He could hear her voice, and it made his heart 
 rejoice. And a day came — mark it red — when 
 George took the chair and gave the reading — a 
 chapter from Merrie England. 
 
 " Let us plunge boldly into Chapter Three. 
 George's local fame spread a bit ; they heard about 
 him at Keighley. What's more, they invited him to 
 speak to the comrades on a Tuesday night. George 
 prinked and preened himself. He delivered his 
 celebrated lecture, ' The Christ that is to be.' After- 
 ward the secretary took him on one side. ' What is 
 your fee, comrade ? ' George didn't know. It was
 
 A SOCIALIST ORATOR 263 
 
 kudos and not money he sought. ' We generally 
 give five shillings,' said the secretary. So George 
 went back to Bradford pondering many things. It 
 appeared to George that God was pointing a way 
 for the exercise of his undoubted genius. Quite 
 unsought, money — live shiUings, no less — had been 
 poured into his lap, like manna of old. Surely it 
 was a sign not lightly to be ignored. The prospect of 
 a Baptist pastorate hardly looked rosy. It meant a 
 thorny path to get there. First, he must learn his 
 trade. Then go ' local ' for a time. Then years must 
 be spent in some hamlet or village, preaching to a few 
 faithful folk. Then a year or two at the College, in a 
 Liberal and unsympathetic atmosphere. At the end 
 of it, a stuffy chapel with a stipend of perhaps a 
 hundred a year. And he had earned five shillings 
 in an hour. Besides, he could probably improve on 
 that. He soared to regions of half a sovereign and 
 a sovereign on Sunday. Perhaps an organizer's job 
 thrown in. And wasn't the Labour movement 
 applied Christianity ? To be sure it was. George 
 was on the brink. It needed only a push. 
 
 " We must approach Chapter Four gravely, 
 solemnly, as befits the crisis in George's pilgrimage. 
 Turn down the lights and give us a slow movement 
 on the harmonium. I said it needed a push. George 
 got the push — in more senses than one. On a 
 Sunday evening, George had delivered his soul- 
 stirring lecture ' Thy Kingdom on this Earth ' — 
 yes, five shillings — down at Ashby-de-la-Zouch, and 
 had missed the last train. So he was late at work 
 on Monday morning. His employer, as you may 
 surmise, didn't like it, and so gave him the push, or
 
 264 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 the sack, or the order of the boot. Whatever you 
 may call it, it was in very deed the push that sent 
 George sheer o'er the crystal brink. In case you 
 have forgotten it, I remind you that George, being 
 the seed of the righteous, need not beg bread. No, 
 Tony ; far from it. George attended his LL.P. 
 Branch that night and told them all about it. Anger 
 was kindled in their hearts. It came to this : that 
 a man could not deliver his soul in Ashby-de-la- 
 Zouch because of an inconvenient train service. 
 They proclaimed George to be a martyr for the 
 cause. Martyrdom ! Splendid ! So when George 
 went lecturing, printed handbills preceded him, an- 
 nouncing him as ' the Bradford Martyr.' George's 
 price went up accordingly ; in fact, George became a 
 draw. So much so that he married on the strength 
 of it. And he read Progress and Poverty, Farms, 
 Fields, and Factories and Fabian Essays. I heard at 
 the time that his perorations were of a tropical 
 verdure. George found that it was by no means 
 roses all the way. The number of paying districts 
 was strictly Hmited, and his pitch was too often 
 queered by some middle-classer who charged no fee 
 at all. It really seemed like blacklegging. More- 
 over, others were pressing on his heels. And all 
 through the summer it was common open-air work, 
 with precious little pay. So George tried for an 
 organizer's job. Alas ! his handwriting was much 
 too stretchy, and there were by now lots of clerks 
 in the movement. It was also generally decided 
 that silent men were best, when it came to secretarial 
 work. 
 
 " Chapter Five is for tears and lamentations. Mrs
 
 A SOCIALIST ORATOR 265 
 
 George was a pretty little thing, pale-faced and 
 anaemic. She wanted nourishing food, particularly 
 just then, for she was with child. She lived very 
 much on tea and bread and butter. So when a little 
 girl came the weakened mother pined. She couM 
 not feed her baby, and that led to more expense, 
 George was at his wits' end. He wrote to his old 
 friend, the village schoolm.aster. Old friends are best. 
 George and his family came back. I happened 
 just then to be staying with my cousin, who told 
 me much of George's story with careless humour. 
 He added : ' You know, Geoffrey, I'm to blame for 
 it. He might have been useful about the farm. 
 Wliy on earth did I let him have books to read. He's 
 spoiled.' He sent fresh milk and jelHes and things 
 to poor little Mrs George, who soon gained strength, 
 and even suckled her baby. Then my cousin, by 
 chance, saw an advertisement offering for sale a 
 flourishing newsagency and sweet business. It was 
 being sacrificed for a beggarly twenty pounds, owing 
 to the occupant — a widow — remarrying and moving 
 to another town. The Squire called up George and 
 told him of this. George was willing. So the busi- 
 ness was bought, and George and Mrs George and the 
 infant settled down in the little parlour behind the 
 shop, 
 
 " Finale, my dear Tony, if you are still awake. 
 Let us step into the shop for a paper. The glass door 
 opens and out steps Mrs George in a clean blouse, her 
 baby in her arms. She is bright and brisk and has a 
 smile worth many coppers a week. But before the 
 glass door swings back, look at George. He is in 
 his shirt-sleeves and is collarless. A pair of carpet
 
 266 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 slippers covers his feet, which are toasting before the 
 fire. I think he must have sent his razor to be 
 mended. One of George's celebrated lectures was 
 ' The Economic Aspect of Woman's Work.' As the 
 glass door closes, with a discreet little bang, George 
 listlessly turns over last week's Labour Leader." 
 
 I was about to remark that the Tudor story had in 
 it elements of great tragedy, in contrast with that 
 of the nerveless George, when Smith announced the 
 Seiior Don Alfonso Rodriguez. 
 
 " I'll be with him in a moment. By the way, the 
 Don will dine and sleep here." 
 
 " Oh, yes, sir," said Smith, trying to repress a 
 smile ; " he has already chosen his room and told me 
 what to get for dinner." 
 
 " Now," said Rafael, " we shall know something 
 about the Revolution." 
 
 Your affectionate uncle, 
 
 Anthony Farley.
 
 XXVI : A LABOUR M.P. 
 
 My dear George, 
 
 The sad story of George Satterthwaite came 
 to mind this morning as a contrast to the modern 
 Labour M.P. who, in his own way, has arrived. I 
 began to wonder how Thomas Smithson would have 
 told the story of an Labour M.P., and, being 
 moved by an imp of mischief, I thought I would 
 experiment in the Smithson style. I enclose the 
 result, and can only hope it may amuse you. Rafael 
 said that I must not take his laughter as any justifica- 
 tion for such a cruel and inhuman performance. 
 Your affectionate uncle, 
 
 Anthony Farley. 
 
 [Enclosure] 
 
 MR JOHN ROBINSON, M.P. 
 
 By Thomas Smithson 
 
 {Reprinted, by permission, from The Puddleborough 
 
 Citizen) 
 
 The remarkable speech delivered by Mr John 
 Robinson, the well-known and highly respected 
 Labour Member for Puddleborough, on Welsh Dis- 
 establishment, brings to the very forefront of British 
 politics an impressive personality. A man of rugged 
 honesty, of direct speech, penetrated with the spirit 
 and even the language of the Bible — the great book 
 that has made England what it is — Mr Robinson is 
 now in the near succession to the chairmanship of the 
 Labour Party. He is not, of course, a cultured man 
 in the sense of the word in vogue in Oxford and Cam- 
 
 267
 
 268 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 bridge ; he is innocent of Latin and Greek ; French 
 and German he has, of course, heard at various inter- 
 national conferences. He recently confided to me 
 that while he had the utmost respect and sympathy 
 for his Continental comrades, he greatly preferred 
 the tongue of Shakespeare and Milton and The Daily 
 News. Under a little judicious pressure he admitted 
 that probably the superior capacity of Englishmen 
 was due to their language. " You see," he said, 
 " English lends itself wonderfully to the exact ex- 
 pression of what a man wants to say, while I have 
 often been struck with the difficulty that French and 
 German comrades must necessarily encounter when 
 engaged on the platform." I hasten to explain that 
 these words were not uttered in any spirit of Anglo- 
 Saxon superiority. The tone was one of genuine 
 sympathy for less fortunate men. Mr Robinson 
 seemed conscious of some possible misunderstanding 
 on this point. " Don't mistake my meaning," he 
 added, " but it is difficult to put it accurately. 
 Perhaps you will gather what I am driving at if I 
 put it in practical form. It is only those who speak 
 English who could possibly have founded the LL.P." 
 And yet I have heard bourgeois journalists affirm 
 that the Labour Party does not possess any men with 
 a genuine hterary instinct. It is, of course, a truism 
 that one half the world never knows how the other 
 half lives — and, I would humbly add, nor what the 
 other half thinks. The ' flannelled fools ' and 
 ' muddied oafs ' who come down from Oxford and 
 Cambridge (what a flood of light that phrase, ' come 
 down,' throws upon the Varsity mind !) seem to 
 think that men hke Mr Robinson can achieve their
 
 A LABOUR M.P. 269 
 
 eminence without ever opening a book. Little 
 do they understand that the uncultured voters who 
 honour men like Mr Robinson with their electoral 
 confidences are just as much alive to the beauty 
 and joy of life as others who are economically more 
 favourably situated. As a matter of fact, Mr John 
 Robinson (known to the Labour cognoscenti as 
 ' Jack ') is not only thoroughly familiar with the 
 Bible (that well of English, pure and undefiled), but 
 has read Ruskin's Crown of Wild Olive, Unto this 
 Last, and other works of the great seer and prophet. 
 When he joined the Middletown Mutual Improve- 
 ment Society he carefully read every word of Car- 
 lyle's Past and Present, and subsequently gave a 
 lecture upon " Carlyle's Message to the World." In 
 this deeply interesting utterance he frankly admitted 
 that, next to the Sermon on the Mount, Carlyle had 
 most profoundly influenced him. There are many 
 members of that Mutual Improvement Society who 
 remember the thrill that passed through the audience 
 as, with a deep chest note, he said the word " pro- 
 foundly," stopping for a moment and then repeating 
 it. Instantly everybody present realized that this 
 was no ordinary man ; that they were faced by a 
 personality destined to make history. 
 
 The English Press has expressed great surprise 
 that Mr Robinson, in the speech to which reference 
 has already been made, should have shown such an 
 intimate knowledge of Church and Chapel politics. 
 Thus, that tried champion of the British democracy, 
 P. W, W., of The Daily News, wrote : 
 
 " Nothing more surprised members on both sides 
 of the House than Mr Robinson's M^ell-informed
 
 270 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 references to the literature of the subject. This 
 rugged representative of the toiling masses, with his 
 Northern accent, dressed in homely homespun, soon 
 showed that he had been cradled in the traditions 
 of the Free Churches. Without bitterness, but with 
 an intensity of feeling that thrilled all those who are 
 attuned to higher things, this plain man told of his 
 early days when Nonconformity was a butt for the 
 scoffers and the cynic ; how he had faced contumely 
 and scorn rather than be false to the creed of his 
 mother, that saintly woman who had gone to her 
 premature grave, the victim of the oppression of the 
 Established Church and all that pernicious system 
 stands for. Even the Bishop of St Asaph, seated 
 in the Peers' Gallery (himself a Nonconformist 
 renegade) could scarce forbear to cheer." 
 
 " H. J.," the scholarly Lobby representative of 
 the Imperialist Daily Chronicle, was struck with the 
 same thought : 
 
 ' ' Here was the dernier cri of the downtrodden pro- 
 letariat. It was the brotherly hand of the Northern 
 Saxon extended to the Cymri, who, in the fastnesses 
 of the Welsh hills, have braved ' the slings and arrows 
 of outrageous fortune,' but have ever kept flying the 
 flag of the Dragon. Big Ben boomed midnight, and 
 Members hurried out of the House to the historic 
 cry of ' Who goes home ? ' ' What did you think of 
 Robinson's speech ? ' I asked Lloyd George, whose 
 eyes were twinkling with the deHght and joy of 
 dialectical victory. ' Splendid ! Magnificent ! Now, 
 really, what else can I say ? Only this : it 
 shows that the great heart of the Democracy throbs 
 nobly to the Government's policy of Liberahsm.'
 
 A LABOUR M.P. 271 
 
 With that the Chancellor of the Exchequer joined a 
 group of his admirers, and was at once the merriest 
 and wittiest grig among them." 
 
 More measured, but not less emphatic, was the 
 verdict of the Parliamentary correspondent of The 
 Manchester Guardian : 
 
 " Mr Robinson is a skilled negotiator in Trade 
 Union disputes. He knows as much as any man 
 living about wages and conditions of labour. It is 
 his business ; but his speech to-night clearly demon- 
 strated that in matters touching the soul and religious 
 beliefs the working classes are the true inheritors of 
 the Protestant tradition." 
 
 It would be sheer affectation on the part of our 
 worthy M.P. to pretend that he is not pleased and 
 even deeply touched by the friendly reception ex- 
 tended to his great speech on Welsh Disestablish- 
 ment. " Yes," he said to me, with a suspicious 
 moisture about his eyes, " I am frankly glad, but 
 how I wish my old friend and mentor, the Rev. 
 Matthew Keeling, were alive to witness it ! You 
 know I owe everything to him. I attended his 
 Sunday school, and he always took a special fancy 
 to me. Many's the wise thing he said when we 
 would walk along together. ' Always remember, 
 Jack, my lad, that wages are only of this life — work 
 for higher wages if you can get them, always provid- 
 ing that you are a good and faithful servant ; but 
 it is the eternal verities that finally count.' Yes, I 
 have never forgotten what he used to say to me about 
 the eternal verities. Fine phrase, isn't it ? It was 
 dear old Matthew Keeling that brought me to a know- 
 ledge of the Lord. Years after, when I was a young
 
 272 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 man,he put me on the circuit of localpreachers. Aye, 
 I owe him a good deal. He introduced me to my 
 wife. ' A fine, upstanding, godly wench,' he told me, 
 with a smile. And so she was and is, God bless her ! 
 To my old eyes she's as young and bonny as ever." 
 
 It is very difficult to get Mr Robinson to talk of 
 his early days. He always speaks of his mother with 
 an abiding reverence. " She was an angel. Ah ! 
 who can tell how precious is the memory of a good 
 mother ? " he said to me one day. " I was afraid to 
 do wrong lest she should know. If she found me out 
 (for boys will be boys, you know) she would just say, 
 ' Oh, Jack ! ' and I would hang my head in shame." 
 
 He was apprenticed to his uncle, a Primitive 
 Methodist deacon, who died soon after, leaving the 
 future M.P. on his beam ends, if one may use a 
 slightly vulgar expression. However, he soon found 
 another job, and worked from six in the morning 
 until half-past five in the evening. He joined his 
 union, and being handy with his pen and tongue 
 (thanks to the Rev. Matthew Keeling) he was soon 
 elected branch secretary. Then each evening found 
 something to occupy his mind. On Mondays he 
 attended his Good Templars lodge, on Tuesday his 
 trade union branch, on Wednesday the Primitives 
 would meet for prayer or experience, Thursday was 
 Miss Mary's night out, and together they would stroll 
 away into the country, communing together. How 
 truly does our great poet picture scenes like this ! 
 
 And on her lover's arm she leant, 
 And round her waist she felt it fold, 
 
 And so across the hills they went 
 To that new world which is the old.
 
 A LABOUR M.P. 273 
 
 On Friday night there was generally a lecture or a 
 political meeting, and Saturday would find the future 
 legislator either going for a chapel picnic or, in the 
 winter, to a football match. 
 
 In 1896 Mr Robinson found himself drawn into 
 poHtics. A celebrated I.L.P. lecturer came to the 
 town and spoke on the subject " Can a Man be a 
 Christian on a Pound a Week ? " Young Robinson 
 was quick to see that working men must assert them- 
 selves in politics. He ' felt the call.' In a few 
 years he found himself in great request. He would 
 speak on " The Politics of the Saviour on the Mount," 
 on " Christ the First Socialist," on " Give us this day 
 our daily bread." Probably, however, his most 
 celebrated lecture was that entitled " Heaven on 
 Earth," in which he reached his highest flights of 
 oratory. The rest of his public life is pubHc property. 
 His great victory in igo6, when he won Puddle- 
 borough for Labour and Progress, is still fresh in our 
 memory. 
 
 Our worthy and respected M.P, has always set 
 his face against those extremists who would trans- 
 mogrify the Labour Party into a revolutionary body. 
 On this point Mr Robinson holds strong convictions. 
 When I recently broached the subject he grew very 
 grave. " Forgive them, for they know not what they 
 do," he said. I could see he was pondering deeply 
 as he tapped the table with his fingers. In a minute 
 or so, speaking very dehberately, he said : "I was 
 much struck the other day by a remark made by our 
 worthy chairman. ' Jack,' said he, ' depend upon 
 it, that what we want is orderly progress.' That's 
 it ! Orderly progress. Now can any man say that
 
 274 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 the French Revolution was orderly progress ? Of 
 course not. Matthew Keeling used to say : ' Here 
 a little and there a Httle.' Isn't that true ? Isn't 
 it life ? Mind you, I respect our Social Democratic 
 friends. They are terribly in earnest and they read 
 a lot of economics. Economics is not my strong 
 point. The Sermon on the Mount is good enough for 
 me. If I have the fear of God in my heart what do 
 I want with economics ? A soulless, godless thing. 
 And I'm sorry to say it, but it's truth (and the truth 
 shall set you free), these Social Democrats are at 
 bottom enemies of religion. Take away our religion 
 and where are we ? It means chaos and anarchy. 
 Besides, is it wise to antagonize our Nonconformist 
 friends ? Where should I be if the progressive forces 
 of Puddleborough were split ? The good old Book 
 tells us to be wise as serpents and harmless as doves. 
 And what is true of rehgion must be true of politics, 
 or else our religion must be a whited sepulchre — 
 just that — a whited sepulchre. Depend upon it, 
 nothing is gained by going too fast. Mind you — and 
 don't forget to mention it — I don't say I'm satisfied. 
 Far from it. These Social Democrats keep on telHng 
 me that wages aren't what they ought to be. That's 
 a very difficult problem — very difficult. But do we 
 make the best of our wages ? Look at our drink bill 
 and the wicked gambling that goes on. No, it's a 
 very difficult problem. Suppose we get higher wages. 
 Should we really be any better off ? As long as I am 
 a member of the Labour Party, I'll be no party to 
 any movement that would undermine the morality 
 of the working classes. These wild, revolutionary 
 Socialists always talk as if employers were unworthy
 
 A LABOUR M.P. 275 
 
 of consideration. Let them come here for a session 
 and they'll very soon discover their mistake. I meet 
 many employers here, and I give you my word, they 
 are wonderfully sympathetic. Let us have a better 
 understanding between employers and workmen — 
 that's good business and good Christianity — but I'm 
 not in favour of turning things topsy-turvy." 
 
 I trust that next time the Tory Press denounces 
 the Labour Party as a gang of SociaHst conspirators 
 they will bear in mind these wise words of Mr Robin- 
 son, who has always spoken sincerely and meant 
 every word that he said. 
 
 Our Liberal and Nonconformist friends need have 
 no fear that as long as our present worthy M.P. sits 
 for Puddleborough there will be any danger of the 
 Labour Party running amuck. In the main, it is 
 composed of serious and religious men who will 
 never consent to any wild revolutionary course. 
 The Labour Party in Parliament has gained the 
 respect of all parties in the House, nor will the wild 
 cavorting of disgruntled Socialists ever force them 
 one hair's-breadth from the pursuit of a policy which 
 has gained for the Labour Party and its leaders the 
 respect and esteem of the thoughtful and respectable 
 elements of British society.
 
 XXVII: A DEGRADED ECONOMY 
 
 My dear George, 
 
 The Don Rodriguez duly appeared at his own 
 chosen dinner and turned out to be a merry cricket. 
 I could see, however, that under the cloak of the 
 farceur is a body trained to endurance and a heart 
 not easily daunted. Intellectually he is a Stoic, even 
 if his habits indicated the gourmet. (The two atti- 
 tudes are by no means mutually exclusive. A Stoic 
 may be a man of good taste ; a man of good taste 
 may be a gourmet.) He belongs to an old and clean- 
 bred Spanish family of large estate. The President 
 of this Sambo republic cut a big slice off their posses- 
 sions. One of the brothers was charged with in- 
 surrectionary sympathies. The noble President, 
 fearing the verdict, had him shot out of hand, and 
 without further ceremony seized Naboth's vineyard. 
 The Don is a young man. He has patience ; he can 
 wait. He will surely remember. 
 
 Rafael had evidently told him that I was to be 
 trusted, so our conversation was unrestrained. Un- 
 doubtedly, there is an insurrection on the Pacific 
 slope, but it was agreed that it must fail. There is 
 money ; there is enthusiasm ; there is anger at the 
 memory of evil things done. But the army remains 
 solid for the President, who has always judiciously 
 pampered it. Rodriguez, with a sigh, said the move- 
 ment was hopeless. " We must wait a better chance," 
 he said, 
 
 " For the sake of Rodriguez, I hope it will come 
 soon," said Rafael. "But, if successful, how will it 
 mend matters ? " 
 
 276
 
 A DEGRADED ECONOMY 277 
 
 " It will feed revenge," came the simple answer. 
 
 That is how things are out here. Pohtics is a 
 fierce personal struggle. The only known political 
 principle is Liberalism, and the President is its high- 
 priest. It is curious that the word ' Liberal ' has 
 a special connotation in England, where it impHes 
 some generous impulse, some social compunction. 
 But elsewhere (perhaps also in England) it is surely 
 the most abominable creed ever devised. If you 
 would be a master politician, you must thoroughly 
 grasp the inner meaning of the vile thing and reaHze 
 also that it is the most powerful force in world- 
 politics. As Liberalism is understood out here, it is 
 a combination of anti-clericalism with full liberty 
 to exploit labour. It implies that the Government, 
 backed by the exploiter, must leave the exploiter 
 alone. It also implies that the exploiter must play 
 fair with the Government. The ancient CathoHc 
 hegemony of Central America had at least a negative 
 virtue : it would not permit its children to accumu- 
 late large profits for anybody save Mother Church. 
 Of course, it did its own spoliation, to the glory of 
 God. As bourgeois population and habits grew 
 stronger, it is hardly surprising that a stern struggle 
 ensued between the Church — mainly guided by 
 Jesuits — and tbe trading classes for a fairer division 
 of the spoils. Out of that struggle came the inde- 
 pendence of the republics (their constitutions models 
 of bourgeois morality) , and the final expulsion of the 
 Jesuits and other religious orders. Then followed 
 the reign of the exploiter, who naturally had the 
 Government in his pocket. Every insurrection that 
 followed has been a grab, sometimes successful, at
 
 278 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 power ; not for Liberty, but for plunder. And 
 always their watchword was Liberalism. 
 
 The story of European Liberalism is in essence 
 similar, but necessarily more subtly contrived. It had 
 to give a greater content to the concept of liberty, 
 and it squared the circle by drawing a sharp line 
 between political and economic liberty. What you 
 must understand is that, from its earliest days, 
 Liberalism has been impregnated with economic 
 motives. Its doctrine is simply this : that happi- 
 ness comes through accumulation. When Adam 
 Smith and the Physiocrats were propaganding, any 
 interference by the State with money-making was 
 deemed to be unnatural ; it was ' artificial.' The 
 State must leave industry alone. Let it stick to its 
 own last — the proper application of force against 
 outside enemies and inside agitators, particularly 
 those who form combinations ' in restraint of trade,' 
 Possessing the economic power, they naturally had 
 the political power. Need we wonder that they made 
 a hell of Great Britain ? 
 
 They did more ; they performed a miracle, for 
 they made our people proud of it. 
 
 I think I have remarked more than once that 
 economic power dominates political theory and 
 action. But that does not mean that political move- 
 ments and methods are impotent or futile. If I buy 
 a newspaper and pay an editor to expound my views, 
 it by no means follows that no power inheres in his 
 work and personality. It merely means that I can 
 exercise power over him. In his turn, however, he 
 exercises influence (which is power) over as many 
 faithful readers as are attracted by his skill and
 
 A DEGRADED ECONOMY 279 
 
 persuasion. So it is with politics. The power 
 behind the throne is money ; but the power of 
 politics is proved by the fact that Liberalism was 
 able to enslave the population and yet make it proud 
 of its liberty. Liberalism — essentially an economic 
 movement — has commanded the ablest statesmen 
 and politicians during the past century. Just 
 think of them : Peel, Lord John Russell, Cobden, 
 Bright, Gladstone. They were the bell-wethers ; they 
 lured the flock to be sheared. Nor were they with- 
 out their prophets and their sacred writings. Adam 
 Smith, Quesnay, Turgot, Malthus, Ricardo, John 
 Stuart Mill, Bastiat, with his discordant Har- 
 monies, J. B. Say, Yves Guyot. Read them all : 
 in their diversity you will find one harmonious 
 strain — the liberty of the exploiter to exploit. Not 
 once do you find a glimmer of the simple truth 
 that the power to buy labour is the power to 
 enslave. 
 
 Nothing grieved these gentry so much as the 
 suggestion that the State might properly step in and 
 protect the weak against the strong. Shaftesbury's 
 agitation was before your time. In my youth, I 
 heard its last echoes. I remember him as a very 
 austere old man. His work was done, but he lived 
 to see it as a buttress and not a curb upon Capital- 
 ism. I once watched him in church — went there to 
 see him — and wondered whether he knew that he, 
 more than any other man, had taught Capitalism 
 how to hitch factory legislation to its own coach. 
 He taught it that inhuman conditions do not pay ; 
 that factory laws and regulations, properly conceived, 
 improved the quality of labour and bound it more
 
 28o LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 securely to the wage-system. All was serenely well 
 so long as you could buy labour at a market price 
 and sell its product at a profit. The rest was leather 
 and prunella. This had been the theme of all the 
 State Socialists from Rodbertus to Webb, I 
 remember as a young man advocating the eight- 
 hours day because a man could produce more in 
 eight hours' intensive work than in nine or ten hours' 
 prolonged work. And I remember Sidney Webb 
 proving to our satisfaction that the Factory Acts 
 were a blessing, because they had transformed the 
 shoddy trade into a profitable, and therefore a 
 respectable, industry. Competitive confusion had 
 given way to regulation. It had become impera- 
 tive, not in the interests of the workers, but of the 
 profiteers. Within the bounds of wagery. State 
 interference is good for the worker and better for the 
 capitalist. It is merely one aspect of the economy 
 of high wages. More corn in the belly, more work 
 in the shafts. 
 
 But what an ideal ! All the sanctities of life, 
 les longs espoirs et les vasles pensees, reduced to 
 the measure of money and commodities. It is not 
 a political economy, but a degraded philosophy. 
 When, then, did it take the wrong turning ? I 
 believe in its definition and appreciation of ' value.' 
 Take Adam Smith. Of course you learnt in the 
 schools his distinction between ' value in use ' 
 and ' value in exchange,' afterward so effectively 
 developed by Marx. In either alternative, value 
 resides in an inanimate thing. Ricardo argued that 
 value is determined by the cost of production. 
 Again, value resides in the thing produced. Marx
 
 A DEGRADED ECONOMY 281 
 
 carried Ricardo's theory a step farther. "All value 
 is the product of labour." Again value in the thing. 
 All the economists are agreed on that point. Granted 
 the premise, I suppose it logically follows. But how 
 if we do not grant the premise ? Suppose we say to 
 Adam Smith, to Ricardo and to Marx : " Gentle- 
 men, behind your definitions there is something 
 you fail to mention — to wit, human life. Have you 
 nothing to say about that ? Consider ! Human 
 life goes into the production of a necklace and into 
 the supply of water. It goes into the production of 
 pate de foie gras, but it also goes into the scavenging 
 of our streets. Please don't fob me off with some 
 futile reply about effective demand or human life 
 being the common denominator — I know all about 
 that. Please tell me whether you have any gauge 
 to the intensity of life, to its quality, its distribution. 
 Have you ever measured your commodities by the 
 natural demand for them ? Oh ! you are not 
 moralists, aren't you ? Then why do you call your- 
 selves political economists ? Let me tell you that 
 political economy involves morals. If it does not, 
 then you are mere counting-house pen-pushers. But 
 it certainly does involve morals, as I can prove in a 
 trice. Thus, in your various definitions of value, 
 how do you distinguish between slavery and wagery ? 
 You tell me it is a purely economic distinction. But 
 how ? Greater productivity under wagery. Why, 
 good sirs ? The higher status produces a higher 
 standard of wealth production and consumption. 
 Ah ! then you can't escape after all from an inquiry 
 into the quality of life ! " 
 
 Being neither a dreamer nor an impossibiiist, I
 
 282 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 recognize that the pohtical economists have done 
 their best with their available material. I am grateful 
 to them ; they interest me immensely. Please don't 
 run away with the notion that I regard them as 
 capitalistic pimps. I don't ; even though they lay 
 themselves open to the imputation. They were all 
 of them exceptionally good and kindly men. But 
 how could they help taking on the colour of their 
 environment ? Quite literally, none of them knew 
 anything about life. To them it was a thing of 
 abstractions and phantoms. Nevertheless, if I find 
 another man's hand in my pocket, and a saintly old 
 gentleman standing by and applauding the act as 
 sound political economy, he won't escape on the 
 score of his unblemished reputation. He will be 
 charged as an accessory. 
 
 I had written the foregoing while Rafael and Don 
 Rodriguez were closeted on urgent affairs. Rodriguez 
 came to bid me adieu and gaily rode away, looking 
 a very gallant gentleman. Rafael asked me what I 
 had been doing, so I told him of this tedious screed 
 to you. 
 
 "It is odd," he remarked, " that the new school 
 don't look up Sismondi. They idolize Saint-Simon, 
 or Fourier, or Owen, or Marx. Why do they forget 
 Sismondi ? " 
 
 " Hanged if I know. Why should they ? " 
 
 " Well, you know, he gave the orthodox crowd 
 some deuced uncomfortable quarts-d'heures. And he 
 anticipated your theory about life values regarded 
 in the economic sense. Read his Nouveaux Prin- 
 cipes. You will find there that he objected mi fond
 
 A DEGRADED ECONOMY 283 
 
 to the aim of orthodox political economy. To them, 
 it was the science of material wealth ; to him the 
 real object of the science should be man, or at the 
 very least the physical well-being of man. For the 
 economists to forget man was a sure way to make a 
 false start. It is the very beginning of his argument. 
 I'll write down two sentences for your charming 
 nephew : ' The accumulation of wealth, in abstracte, 
 is not the aim of government, but the participation 
 by all its citizens in the pleasures of life which the 
 wealth represents. Wealth and population in the 
 abstract are no indication of a country's prosperity ; 
 they must in some way be related to one another 
 before being employed as the basis of comparison." 
 Tell your nephew to put that in his pipe and smoke 
 it." 
 
 " I will, by Jove ; and if he reads it to the Professor 
 of Political Economy, he'll drop down dead." 
 
 " Worse things might happen." 
 
 " An alert Press could make great game of it. 
 Imagine the heading : ' Death of a Professor from 
 shock on discovering a human political economy.' 
 How did Sismondi apply it ? " 
 
 " By la3ang great stress on distribution. I dare say 
 his argument was all wrong. He wrote in the early 
 part of last century, you know. But I like him 
 because as an economist and an historian he had 
 compassion for those who suffer from trade crises. 
 The invention of new machinery, the freedom of 
 competition, and all the other stock-in-trade of 
 the Liberals made him furious, because they had 
 no compunction for those who suffered during 
 the transition. To him, political economy, broadly
 
 284 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 conceived, is a theory of goodwill, and any theory that 
 in the final analysis does not increase the happiness 
 of mankind does not belong to the science at all. 
 Doubtless he was hopelessly wrong-headed, but I 
 Hke him for it. His work is full of good things. 
 You know the old argument about the spontane- 
 ous rearrangement of society following increased 
 mechanical production. Sismondi jumps on it with 
 both feet. He flourishes his fist ; he shouts in his 
 anger. ' Show more regard for men and less for 
 machinery ' is his indignant cry. ' Let us desist 
 from our habit of making abstraction of time and 
 place. Let us take some account of the abstracts 
 and the friction of the social mechanism. The 
 immediate effect of machinery is to throw some 
 of the workers out of employment, to increase the 
 competition of others, and so to lower the wages 
 of all.' " 
 
 " Of course, he admits that a certain equiHbrium is 
 re-established in the long run, but only after frightful 
 suffering. And, ex hypothesi, suffering is uneconomic. 
 Then, again, he spotted the waste involved. Com- 
 petition has induced women and children to bear 
 the burden of production instead of adults. Cheap- 
 ness, in such circumstances, is useless. The meagre 
 advantage enjoyed by the pubHc is more than 
 counterbalanced by the loss of health and vigour of 
 the workers." 
 
 " By the same token, and apart from material 
 results, woman in industry is uneconomic." 
 
 " I dare say it is. We instinctively hate the 
 idea of our women living bedraggled lives in fac- 
 tories,"
 
 A DEGRADED ECONOMY 285 
 
 " Thanks for telling me about Sismondi. George 
 Moore showed his intense love for the Irish language 
 by making his nephew learn it. That's the kind of 
 vicarious learning that suits me. TU make my 
 nephew stew up Sismondi. But a dreadful doubt 
 oppresses me. These historical writers are nearly 
 all pure inductionists. Deduction for me ! When a 
 man says that his experience leads him to conclude 
 that economic law is moonshine, I back that law 
 without hesitation. We must have the abstract 
 before we can distil the truth." 
 
 " Poor Tony ! Orthodox and doesn't know it ! " 
 
 " Perhaps and perhaps not. But, after all, there 
 is more science in the classical than in the social- 
 economic school. I prefer to build on the classical. 
 There is less to reject and a vast deal more can be 
 added. If I were a theologian, I would choose the 
 Catholic and not the Baptist theology. The one 
 may be right in this or that particular, but the other 
 has the broad sweep and encompasses the living 
 issues — such as they are." 
 
 " And the deuce of a lot more inertia." 
 
 " True ; that is our problem." 
 
 " I doubt if it is really a problem. Take the 
 commonly accepted emotional Socialism — the ethical 
 stuff, I remember that the Socialists were never 
 tired of proclaiming it to be the very essence of 
 Christianity, and the Church rejected the claim. 
 The Socialists fought their way into a sentimental 
 popularity, and now the Church asserts that it is 
 the one and only Socialist body. In like manner — 
 touch wood ! — if you were to go for a scientific study 
 of human life as the greatest economic factor, the
 
 286 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 classical fellows would first laugh at you, and finally 
 assert that you exactly express their sentiments. 
 The fact is that all the inexact sciences are more or 
 less humbug. The wise thing is not to be bull-dozed 
 by them." 
 
 Your affectionate uncle, 
 
 Anthony Farley.
 
 XXVIII: BREEDING, BLOOD, AND 
 PIRACY 
 
 My dear George, 
 
 My visit to Placentia ended suddenly. Once 
 again a horse and rider clattered over the cobbled 
 stones of the patio, and once again Rafael's prac- 
 tised ear detected the stranger. Smith announced 
 a messenger to see me. Hard on his heels entered 
 Boyle, the beaming constable who keeps watch and 
 ward over our little district. I was naturally 
 astonished. "What brought you here, Boyle? " I 
 asked. "The Attorney-General, sir, sent me with 
 this." He handed me a letter. 
 
 " After all, I shall want your evidence in the 
 piracy case. Would you kindly come quickly ? 
 
 " Yours as ever, 
 
 "L. Talbot." 
 
 I handed the note to Rafael, who broke into loud 
 laughter. " Tony ! Tony ! Little did I think that 
 any friend of mine would ever be involved in a piracy 
 case. I am greatly distressed. Really, you know, you 
 don't dress the part. You look much too benevolent." 
 
 " What do looks matter ? I knew a parson in my 
 young days. With his surplice and other trimmings 
 on he looked positively angelic. He could have 
 married any woman in the congregation. Butter 
 wouldn't melt in his mouth. But he never missed a 
 prize-fight." 
 
 " York Powell knew more about the ring than 
 any other man. Anyhow, you mustn't change the 
 subject. Tell me how you became a pirate." 
 
 287
 
 288 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 " The story began thirty years ago, when Nick 
 Murphy, a rapscalHon Irish sailor, deserted his ship 
 at Behze. He was a big-chested, powerful man, a 
 drunkard, a gambler, and a swashbuckler. He 
 worked at practically every kind of job, earning good 
 money. Then he would let out and paint the town 
 red. He fmally found himself stranded at Stann 
 Creek. Here he met a mulatto woman, Isabel 
 Burgos. She must have been physically enticing. 
 Even now, her body is supple and her movements 
 are Hthe. She works on my estate, washes, cooks, 
 and makes coco-nut oil. Isabel's father was white 
 and her mother half white. Isabel's colour is hght 
 mahogany. The mother had some property worth, 
 perhaps, two thousand dollars. Nick wanted the 
 woman, and she wanted Nick. But the mother 
 stood guard. ' If you want my daughter, you marry 
 hei*,' she said. Nick didn't want to marry, but he 
 wanted Isabel. ' Put down five hundred dollars, ye 
 ould skinflint, and I'll take her to church.' So the 
 bargain was struck. 
 
 " Nick bought a mule and cart with part of the 
 money and started a ' Wind tiger ' with the balance. 
 Oddly enough, he became sober, and having saved 
 some money and made himself popular, obtained 
 a licence. Then he added a three-quarter biUiard- 
 table and a dancing-hall to his stock. Three children 
 were born, the oldest a boy, and two girls. Then 
 Nick's affections began to wander. His wife was 
 jealous and their hfe became a httle hell. One 
 night Nick turned his wife and children out of the 
 home acquired with her money. A day or two later 
 another coloured woman was installed. There were
 
 BREEDING, BLOOD, AND PIRACY 289 
 
 endless police court proceedings for alimony, for 
 assault, for brawls. Finally, the D.C. got sick of 
 the whole Murphy menage and told them to begone 
 and not to bother him any more. The result was 
 that the woman failed to get aUmony, and Nick was 
 left in peace with his concubine. To continue the 
 parental story, Isabel joined a buck nigger, while 
 Nick changed his women every year. He died 
 recently, leaving thirty thousand dollars and twenty- 
 nine children. As he lay d^dng, Isabel rubbed her 
 hands in gleeful anticipation. ' When he die, sir, 
 we get his money. He bad man. It is good he die.' 
 ' You can't get any of it, Isabel, because you have 
 been living with Ezekiel and having children by 
 him.' 'No matter, sir, his children lawful. They 
 get it. I glad if they get it. I no matter. I live 
 on httle bread and tea. But when he die, then Jim 
 he buy Navarro's sloop. Jim he always want sail 
 his own boat.' Isabel's brown eyes light up with 
 mother pride at the thought of her boy Jim sailing 
 his own boat. I laugh. ' Why, Isabel, you must 
 have been very pretty when Nick married you.' 
 Isabel laughs too. ' Not so bad, sir.' 
 
 " A time came when Nick Murphy's fires abated 
 and he longed for permanence and comfort at home. 
 As money came, there came to him a sense of that 
 racial pride he had so long forgotten. Just then, so 
 Fate decreed, Juanita Carillon crossed his path. Her 
 husband, a drunken brute, had behaved after his 
 kind. Juanita may have the negro strain in her, 
 but she is practically a white woman. Nick found 
 her one night sleeping on the sand under her 
 husband's house. He said to her : ' You have had
 
 290 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 enough ; I have had enough ; come to me, Nita.' 
 So she went to Nick and they were happy. She 
 rejoiced in the security of his strong arm ; he at last 
 knew something of home comforts. Moreover, she 
 helped him in the shop and watched carefully over 
 his interests. He dressed better than ever before, 
 and walked more confidently in the company of 
 white men. Then he wounded his foot on a rusty 
 nail. He and she doctored it together. He liked 
 her nursing, revelUng in the unaccustomed feminine 
 touches. But neither realized that the foot was 
 growing worse. Finally, they called in the doctor. 
 ' Gangrene, you fool ; why didn't you tell me a 
 month ago ? Your foot must come off.' Juanita 
 wept bitterly, for she felt guilty. ' If I'd been black, 
 you'd have got the doctor at first ; you trusted me 
 because I was white.' ' Never mind, Nita ; I'll just 
 get the foot off. Keep things going till I come back.' 
 Nick felt strangely happy in comforting his white 
 woman. Had she been one of the earlier ones he 
 would have kicked her about the room with his sound 
 foot. So he sailed away to the Belize Hospital, 
 where they amputated his foot, the surgeon remarking 
 upon the shortage of blood. 
 
 " For a day or two Nick lay thinking of his new 
 life. The doctor examined the leg anxiously, for 
 there were disquieting symptoms. On the third 
 day he told Nick that he must amputate at the knee ; 
 the gangrene was showing on the side of the shin. 
 Weeks ran into months. They kept on nibbling at 
 his leg. The last time Nick felt nothing and there 
 was no blood. ' It's hopeless, Nick. We've done 
 our best. I fear you must prepare for the worst.'
 
 BREEDING, BLOOD, AND PIRACY 291 
 
 Then Nick thought of Isabel and their children law- 
 fully begotten. The}^ were his own, bone of his bone, 
 flesh of his flesh. And it was Isabel's money that 
 had started him. So he sent for the three children, 
 who looked at him as upon a stranger. He saw 
 himself mirrored in the boy. But all three were un- 
 couth, uneducated, incapable of sympathy or under- 
 standing. He shook hands with his son and kissed 
 his daughters, who perfunctorily responded. He 
 felt relieved when they sidled out of the room. 
 Juanita hastened to the side of her dying man. She 
 caressed him, sitting for hours fondling his hand, 
 finally breaking out into a torrent of self-reproaches 
 and passionate words of gratitude. When night 
 came the nurses led her gently away. Nick sent 
 for the lawyer and made his will, leaving everything 
 to Juanita. Two days later they buried him. 
 
 " From his earliest days Jim Murphy, son of 
 Nicholas, although brought up among coloured 
 children, was taught to believe that he belonged to 
 the dominant white race. His skin was white, his 
 hair soft and brown. There was not a kink in it. 
 He would watch the District Commissioner riding 
 past. He could not put it into words, but he would 
 think, ' You and I belong.' The Customs officer 
 was Creole. Jim would look at him and say to him- 
 self : ' Huh ! He was born here. My father was 
 born in Ireland, and that's as good as England.' 
 When he saw ' proper ' white children, he would 
 dream of the day when tlie^^ would play with him 
 as with a brother. But they would go away to New 
 Orleans or Mobile, or even to England to be educated. 
 And all the time he seemed to be drawn deeper and
 
 292 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 deeper into the black, servile mass. There was no 
 school for him. He went to work in a Spaniard's 
 warehouse, and, when he had grown to his father's 
 stature, he became a mahogany cutter, a teamster, 
 finally being left in charge of my coco-nut walk. He 
 was given a cottage, and Stella, a black wench, went 
 to live with him. 
 
 " I think that what most weighed with him was 
 the fact that he was legitimate. It is not much to 
 have a white father. Black women like white men 
 to give them children. ' It hghtens the colour,' they 
 say, and make no claim. But Jim was born in wed- 
 lock, and that made all the difference. So he nursed 
 the hope that some day he would live a white man's 
 life, perhaps marry a white woman. His mother 
 and sisters did not like his Stella affair. ' You are 
 white ; do as the whites do,' they would say to him. 
 Jim sometimes saw his father, after Juanita had 
 made him dress well. Jim did not feel the irony of 
 it ; he was pleased that his father walked in fine 
 linen. He felt a reflected radiance ; it kept alive 
 his pride of race. ' I am not black, I am white,' 
 was his constant thought. 
 
 " So it came about that, as the gates of death 
 closed upon Nicholas Murphy, the doors of heaven 
 opened to the enraptured gaze of James Murphy, his 
 son lawfulh^ begotten. Father and son were for a 
 moment lifted out of the common herd that they 
 might together touch tragedy. Heaven seemed 
 assured when Nicholas shook hands with Jim. ' He 
 is dying ; the property will soon be mine,' said Jim, 
 swimming on a wave of jubilant triumph. He built 
 castles in Spain as he waited the lawyer's summons.
 
 BREEDING. BLOOD, AND PIRACY 293 
 
 " Be sure that bad news travels swift to pain or 
 to dismay. Three days after Nick's burial Isabel 
 rushed, breathless, into Jim's cottage. ' He has 
 left ever3^thing to that woman,' she sobbed, wiping 
 her eyes with her petticoat. Jim could not say any- 
 thing ; he was very slow of speech. He clenched his 
 fists and felt as though he were falling into the void. 
 Shaken and irresolute, he looked out on the sea. A 
 gentle south-easter roughened the ghnting waters. 
 ' I'm going to Stann Creek to see about it,' he said, 
 his eyes glowering in pain and anger. So he put 
 some food and clothes into his 'patkey,' walked 
 down to the shore, where waited, ever ready, his 
 sailing dory. Isabel kissed him good-bye. In a 
 minute he was on the water, sail and jib set, his hand 
 with sure touch on the rudder. His last glimpse 
 was of Isabel, again with petticoat to weeping eyes, 
 and Stella standing at the cottage door, impassive, 
 uncomprehending. 
 
 " A few minutes after landing at Stann Creek Jim 
 met Vicente Flores, prize-fighter, scamp, cut-throat, 
 but withal plausible and inteUigent. They went 
 into Murphy's saloon to drink rum. Jim paid for it. 
 ' It ought to be 3'ours,' said Vicente, leering, pro- 
 vocative. ' Sure,' said Jim. ' I'm going on a proper 
 voyage,' said Vicente. ' Where to ? ' asked Jim. 
 ' Barrios, Cortez, Tela, and Truxillo.' ' Some trip,' 
 said Jim. ' We're going on the motor sloop Isabel.' 
 ' My mother's name,' said Jim. ' It ought to be 
 your mother's boat ; old Nick owned it. Brought 
 in on it many a keg without paying duty. Now 
 it belongs to Juanita. Damned shame, I say.' 
 ' Sure,' said Jim. For some hours did Jim and
 
 294 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 Vicente pour rum down their throats and money into 
 gentle Juanita's lap. She would come in and out of 
 the saloon, behind the bar, furtively watching the 
 unhappy but stolid Jim, her dead man's lawful son, 
 born in holy wedlock, with the Church's blessing. 
 Juanita, pious in her own way, felt uneasy. The 
 sight of Jim got on her nerves. One moment she 
 wanted to scream ; another, she felt an impulse to 
 offer a share to the disinherited. But she did nothing, 
 and Jim's last chance floated down the wind. 
 
 " That night, on the bridge over the river where 
 it flowed across the bar into the sea, the mast-light 
 of the Isabel twinkling out beyond the shoal, Vicente 
 proposed to Jim that he should join the boat. ' We 
 can do some trading on our own,' he said. ' Besides, 
 we're taking a rich old man and his woman. You 
 bet we can do something with him.' ' Sure,' said 
 Jim, innocent of any sinister intent. Early next 
 morning Vicente and Jim were busy at the store 
 buying things to barter, or on the boat making ready, 
 taking in luggage and provisions, and tuning up the 
 engine. At eight o'clock old Ricardo d'Almeida and 
 his French Creole woman, Josephine, came aboard. 
 The dory was hoisted, the anchor weighed, and Jim 
 went unresisting to his fate. 
 
 " For nearly two days the Isabel (under sail to 
 save the gasolene) glided down the coast, past ' Dead 
 Man's Point ' and ' Pirate Cay,' with a light but fair 
 wind. Most of the time Jim and Vicente lounged or 
 slept in the bow, occasionally stirring to luff or haul 
 closer. Josephine sat in a deck-chair, sometimes 
 snoozing and waking to trill a French song. Ricardo 
 passed the time reading a Spanish aphrodisiacal
 
 BREEDING, BLOOD, AND PIRACY 295 
 
 novel, his gimlet eyes now and then casting a glitter- 
 ing glance at Josephine, comparing her charms with 
 the heroine's. At length, impatient of slow progress, 
 he spoke roughly to Vicente, ordering him, with an 
 oath, to start the engine. Vicente rose indolently 
 and went below. Soon came the thug-thug of 
 cylinder and piston, speed obtained at the expense 
 of silence. I like to think that what followed was 
 done in hot and not cold blood. Some words, rough 
 or smooth, passed between the old man and the 
 young ruffian. In an instant, before Jim had 
 reaHzed it, Vicente struck Ricardo a blow which 
 stunned him. Jim rushed aft, raised the old man's 
 head and laved his brow with water out of a cup that 
 stood on the cabin's poop. Josephine, thoroughly 
 frightened, grew hysterical. Ricardo soon revived. 
 Vicente's prize-ring experience had taught him to 
 avoid half -measures. With quick decision he roped 
 Ricardo's legs, tying the hands behind the back. 
 Josephine, on her deck-chair, shrieked, laughed, and 
 wrung her hands. The old man finally struggled 
 to his knees, begging mercy. Jim, slow of thought 
 and inarticulate, now became Vicente's pliant instru- 
 ment. Fury lurked in Vicente's eyes ; his arms 
 and hands twitched, oaths and imprecations flowed 
 torrential from his lips. He suddenly grew silent, 
 piercing Ricardo with a look of concentrated hatred. 
 Ricardo, still on his knees, trembHng, terrified, 
 alternately begged mercy and called upon God to 
 save him. Then Vicente drew his knife from the 
 leather sheath attached to his belt and cut Ricardo's 
 throat with a great gash, the blood spurting over the 
 deck. ' The second anchor,' shouted Vicente. Jim
 
 296 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 rushed forward and brought it. Vicente knelt down 
 and lashed it to the legs of the dying man. ' Now, 
 over with him.' Jim, in hypnosis, helped, and 
 Ricardo's last home was the sea, literally at safe 
 anchorage. 
 
 " As the dead body sank, the hysterical Josephine 
 swooned. Vicente looked at her, frowning. ' Now 
 for the old bitch,' he said. But something was 
 stirring in Jim. Vaguely, he knew that it is against 
 the white man's code to kill women. There flashed 
 across his mind memories of white men, with whom 
 he had hoped some day to mix. He knew what they 
 would think of killing a defenceless woman — they 
 who guarded their women, even to death. And he 
 was white, while Vicente was an Indian. ' Come 
 on, man, quick,' called Vicente. ' No,' repHed Jim. 
 ' God damn it, man, we must, or she'll split on us.' 
 Jim had no answer to this, so remained silent. 
 ' I'll do it by myself,' said Vicente. ' No,' said Jim, 
 stepping over to the prostrate woman. ' Why not ? ' 
 asked Vicente. ' I'm white,' said Jim, his face stolid, 
 sullen, determined. Vicente went down into the 
 cabin and stopped the engine. Up above, Jim drew 
 his machete and waited. In a minute or two 
 Vicente returned. ' All right,' said he, ' but what 
 shall we do with her ? ' ' Dunno,' said Jim. ' Let's 
 put her ashore on one of these cays. We can get 
 away before she can do anything.' ' Yes,' said Jim. 
 When Josephine became conscious Vicente told her 
 they would spare her life, but she must be put ashore. 
 So said, so done. Jim and Vicente were masters of 
 the Isabel. 
 
 " On examining Ricardo's effects they found about
 
 BREEDING, BLOOD, AND PIRACY 2Q7 
 
 two thousand gold dollars and some jewels. Every- 
 thing else they weighted and threw overboard. 
 They entered Barrios harbour under power. Oddly 
 enough, their papers were found to be correct. The 
 strain relaxed, they soon made the money spin on 
 liquor, gambling, and women. Then, one evening, 
 Vicente told Jim that a woman had been rescued 
 from a cay. ' We've got to get,' he said. They 
 made for the open sea, and for weeks sheltered 
 among the cays (islands). Finally, money and food 
 all gone, they discussed plans. ' We must sell the 
 boat,' said Vicente ; ' who'll buy it ? ' ' The Chief,' 
 said Jim. Thus, one morning, Jim and Vicente 
 walked up to my house to offer me a motor sloop 
 for five hundred dollars. I declined, knowing 
 Vicente of old. The police soon raised the hue 
 and cry, Jim and Vicente were arrested and the 
 boat seized. 
 
 " Jim will stand in the dock and Juanita will give 
 evidence against him. Because Jim was suddenly 
 conscious of his white blood and saved the woman 
 we will hang him — to uphold the law and teach 
 all niggers a lesson." 
 
 Not once did Rafael interrupt. I think he was a 
 little moved by my recital. 
 
 "That story certainly began thirty years ago," 
 he said. " You ought to write it out for the benefit 
 of your poHtical nephew. It has some bearing, I 
 fancy, on heredity and environment." 
 
 " It's the deuce of a long story to write. Helas ! 
 I must be going. Had a ripping time. I will 
 always connect you with the song of the husband- 
 man."
 
 298 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 " What's that ? " asked Rafael. 
 " Somewhere in the Bible : 
 
 " ' The hay is carried 
 
 And the tender grass sheweth itself, 
 And the herbs of the mountain are gathered in. 
 The lambs are for thy clothing, 
 And the goats are the price of the field : 
 And there will be goats' milk enough for thy food. 
 For the food of thy household ; 
 And maintenance for thy maidens." 
 
 " It sounds like a benediction," said Rafael. 
 
 " Let it be one, with all my heart," I answered. 
 
 We stepped down to the patio. My horse, Paddy, 
 pawed impatiently. I tested his belly-band and 
 mounted, while Rafael patted his neck. Then our 
 hands clasped. In a few minutes we were plunging 
 down the winding road. 
 
 And so home. 
 
 Your affectionate uncle, 
 
 Anthony Farley.
 
 XXIX: RICHARD TUDOR 
 
 My dear George, 
 
 I enclose Richard Tudor' s letter, as promised. 
 I expect it will seem remote and altogether irrelevant 
 to political life as you knew it prior to the war. I 
 regard it as an historic document. Please keep it 
 carefully. It is one of many papers in my possession 
 which might prove extremely interesting to the next 
 or some future generation. If I were a literary gent 
 I could earn some more or less honest guineas by 
 throwing them together in book form, with those 
 harmless comments and annotations which are 
 deemed to be de rigueur in that class of literature. 
 
 Prescience and sympathy are essential to recognize 
 genuinely historic documents. We are told that this 
 Prime Minister or that Foreign Secretary or some 
 President of some republic has added to his fame 
 by writing a classic State paper. There have been 
 several hundreds of them in my own recollection. 
 But the years cover them with silent dust ; they 
 become mere stones in an edifice of precedent. No 
 doubt they served their turn, bringing great kudos 
 to their authors. But historic ? No. They are 
 not historic because they are political, and, there- 
 fore, transient — artificial, and, therefore, transient. 
 A genuinely historic document must first and last 
 be penetrated with truth and sincerity ; it must 
 be artless, written without affectation or for effect. 
 Such documents are locked away in old strong boxes 
 in ancient castles and manor-houses — a letter from 
 a lord to his lady, old estate accounts, tradesmen's 
 bills, confidential letters that utter thoughts too 
 
 299
 
 300 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 subversive to publish, or tell of events apparently 
 trivial but often of incalculable significance. We 
 know the legal relations between the various classes 
 of English society from Magna Charta to the Insur- 
 ance Act. But we do not know the actual personal, 
 the psychological relations that have subsisted in 
 feudalism and the large industry. That is a much too 
 subtle task for Dryasdust. The really historic docu- 
 ments are precisely those that formal history rejects. 
 
 I have been too much behind the scenes to be 
 deluded by formal records and papers. He is a fool 
 who is so deluded, for they are almost invariably 
 false in essence. It is a safe rule to regard suspiciously 
 every hierarchical document. Depend upon it, the 
 more persuasive it seems, the less reliable it is in fact. 
 Am I then a disillusioned old cynic ? Not in the 
 very least. I have merely learnt the simple lesson 
 (too simple for clever folk) that the facts of life and, 
 therefore, history, are found in the thoughts and 
 hopes and daily tasks of the mass of the population. 
 The voice of the people is not the voice of God, but 
 it is the voice of history. Before it the walls of 
 Jericho totter and fall. To be disillusioned is the 
 first step toward salvation ; but I cannot be a 
 cynic, because I have more than once entered into 
 the sanctuary of living truth. I have been present 
 at the birth of the commonplace, that most miracu- 
 lous and most powerful agency in true historic de- 
 velopment. Cynicism is much too cheap for one who 
 has experienced the rich simpHcity of ordinary life. 
 Give me Millet, and let who will have Watteau. 
 
 Do you think that the commonplace is dull ? It 
 is the unusual, the perverse, that is dull. I have
 
 RICHARD TUDOR 301 
 
 been among clever people, the so-called Bohemians, 
 the academicals, the politicals, the rebels, and all the 
 rest of the epigrammatic quidnuncs. Their lives 
 are dreadful — a strained extravaganza, tiresome and 
 exhausting. Tell me, what do you think of a man or 
 woman who frankly confesses to be always in search 
 of new sensations ? Life to them is dull. There 
 can be no other explanation. Perhaps you will say 
 that they have found the ordinary, the commonplace, 
 so dull that they seek something more exciting. 
 Idiots ! If life punched them in the ribs, they would 
 look for it in the moon. From time to time, I have 
 told you stories of ordinary, commonplace men 
 and women out here. Have my stories been dull ? 
 Then God help you — or me. 
 
 I am forgetting Tudor's letter. I think it con- 
 forms to my definition. Tudor was the cleverest 
 man I ever met, but he knew that truth and the real 
 struggle that lifts us beyond the level of the brute are 
 to be found only in the universal, in that vast expanse 
 of average experience that surges all around us, that 
 breaks in upon us with tidal force, from which we 
 cannot escape. How foolish for clever men to deny 
 its existence ! how fantastic when they refuse to 
 plunge in ! Yet London, Paris, New York, and all 
 our ' intellectual centres ' are covered, as with flies, 
 by these creatures who think that the earth is dirty 
 and average life inconsistent with the fastidious. 
 Not so Tudor. I remember taking him to a mixed 
 club in London. I could not say whether the dress 
 or the conversation was the more exotic. We left 
 early ; Tudor's disgust would have broken bounds 
 had we stayed.
 
 302 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 " Tony, it doesn't deceive you, does it ? "he asked. 
 
 I felt a little ashamed, for somehow I had been 
 rather taken in. So I answered, shamefacedly : "It 
 amuses me." 
 
 " How can anything so unreal and ugly amuse 
 you ? Come, step out ; let's get some decent fresh 
 air into our lungs. I do not think a brothel could 
 be more depressing. What a croaking and creaking 
 assembly of flatulent frogs ! Did you hear that little 
 ape trying to discuss the de Goncourts ? It sickened 
 me. He told me he was a realist. He never came 
 within a mile of reality. But the women ! Who 
 was that dressy thing I spoke with ? She dithered 
 about sex-freedom." 
 
 As we walked he rolled a cigarette in his long, 
 nervous fingers. I can see his sharply cut features 
 as he lit a match, his lips curled in scorn and anger. 
 
 " You know we think in contrasts," he continued, 
 " and Agnes Boraston came vividly to mind." 
 
 " A domestic tabby-cat," I remarked. 
 
 " If you will," he answered ; " but let me tell you 
 she's none the worse for that. Anyhow, I met her 
 the other day and walked home with her. Her 
 people are all political — Liberals and philanthropic. 
 She runs something — a girls' club, I think. Sense of 
 duty ; but I bet you any money she does it well. 
 We got talking about the local political crowd. ' A 
 poor lot,' I said. ' Yes,' said she, ' in your sense, I 
 agree ; and in mine, too. They're never themselves ; 
 they're all masks and dominoes. I think that what 
 we want is not so much great men as men — just men.' 
 I was dehghted. Fancy little Aggie touched by 
 Carlyle. But, Lord i compare her with those club
 
 RICHARD TUDOR 303 
 
 vixens. No, damn it ! why should I insult her ? 
 She's clean and sweet, and, if she marries a man and 
 not a mask, she'll bear and train up clean, wholesome 
 children." 
 
 Some scales fell from my eyes. Life ! 
 
 And now I wonder if you will agree with me that 
 Tudor's letter has some historic signiiicance. It is 
 not merely the cry of a stricken heart. It tells of 
 what a young, cultured, and generous man — a gentle- 
 man, in short — felt and hoped and fought for when 
 this century opened. 
 
 Your affectionate uncle, 
 
 Anthony Farley. 
 
 [Enclosure] 
 
 FuNCHAL, October 12, 1904. 
 Dear Tony, 
 
 I found this place so delightful, so alluring, 
 that I suddenly decided to stop off for a mail or two. 
 As Brown found me dreamy or preoccupied, and 
 found himself entangled with a soi-disant widow, 
 with hair of a Bond Street colour unknown to me, I 
 had no hesitation in giving him a miss. We shall 
 meet later, either at Cape Town or Jo 'burg — as he 
 calls it. Meantime, the vine rows terraced up the 
 mountain-side, the cattle lazily drawing the sleds 
 over the cobbled streets, the quaint little shops sell- 
 ing obviously faked curios (mostly made in Birming- 
 ham), above all, the ever-changing face of the South 
 Atlantic, reflecting the smiles or tears of God, have 
 called me out of myself, and I begin to feel a peace 
 that passes understanding.
 
 304 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 I think nothing of the future, my present being too 
 deUciously serene ; but I have reached one decision 
 which is irrevocable. If and when I return, ttie 
 movement shall know me no more. At the moment, 
 it seems to leave my life empty. I do not doubt, 
 however, that new interests — or hobbies : fancy me 
 with a hobby ! — will gradually fill the vacuum. 
 
 This decision is not the result of pique. The 
 criminal revulsion to poHtics, bringing in its train the 
 degradation of the spirit of the movement by which 
 I set such store, hurt me more than I can tell. In- 
 deed, I have felt something of the sorrow of Isaiah : 
 "I shall go as in solemn procession all my years 
 because of the bitterness of my soul." But in these 
 soothing surroundings, with brain and nerves 
 smoothed out, and seeing affairs objectively, I now 
 recognize that our efforts have been largely wasted 
 because we have had no all-comprehensive formula, 
 no spiritual talisman, to guide us in our ways. All 
 our vaunted syntheses upon which we plumed our- 
 selves prove to be the merest conjecture and specula- 
 tion. One or two palpable facts prove this. For 
 example, have you observed that our fellows in the 
 game of politics have quite naturally resorted to the 
 usual electioneering monkey tricks ? I never liked 
 it, but until now never grasped its significance. It 
 is surely evident that if we were veritably inspired 
 by some great evangel, the majesty of its truth 
 would call out a corresponding dignity in our con- 
 duct. As things are, what do we more than others ? 
 Then, again, how easy is it for our so-called leaders 
 to swing the movement into any side-track that 
 happens to suit their book ! Take the Boer War.
 
 RICHARD TUDOR 305 
 
 Our attitude toward it ought surely to have been 
 distinctive. We had nothing to say, so, like silly 
 parrots, reproduced in our own jargon the arguments 
 of The Manchester Guardian. The Fabian old gang 
 pronounced for the nationalization of the goldfields. 
 That rather attracted me at first. It seemed quite 
 in our line. But on examination it is found to be 
 moonshine. Apart from the palpable fact that the 
 gang of capitalists who were strong enough to force 
 war upon us were strong enough to hold what they 
 had grabbed, short of confiscation, how would 
 nationalization have helped the working gold-miners? 
 Their wages would be fixed by market conditions 
 and their bones and sinews continue to be exploited 
 to pay interest on Consols instead of company shares. 
 It is when I reach this point that I am frankly 
 puzzled. If our existing system of industrial re- 
 muneration continues under Socialism, it leaves the 
 status of the worker precisely what it was under 
 Industrialism. It is somewhere in this direction 
 that we must look for a fundamental change — not 
 merely a change of employer from Private Stork to 
 State Log. I do not see the way out ; I only wish I 
 did. 
 
 No sooner are we quit of the South African mess 
 than we find ourselves involved in the woman's 
 suffrage crusade. The I.L.P. leaders are up to their 
 necks in it. What in thunder has it got to do with 
 us ? I heard a woman say : "I have no vote ; my 
 gardener has." It struck me all of a heap — but 
 not the way she expected. Who was she that she 
 should speak of ' my ' gardener ? It looks as though 
 slavery were not yet abolished. Why is not the 
 
 u
 
 3o6 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 gardener his own man ? Mind you, it is not a mere 
 form of speech, as who would say ' my grocer ' or 
 ' my butcher.' She spoke of the gardener quite 
 naturally and sincerely in the possessive sense. She 
 meant : " This man belongs to me, body and bones. 
 I keep him and maintain him. He is at my mercy. 
 How preposterous, then, that he should have a vote 
 while I haven't ! " My answer disconcerted her : 
 " Why, then, we must take steps to prevent you 
 possessing a gardener." The more I think of it, the 
 more clearly do I see that my answer inadvertently 
 gets down to the roots of things. We are very fond 
 of the epigram : " One man, one vote, good ; one 
 man, one job, better." Do we then mean "One 
 woman, one job " ? If we do, then count me out. 
 That prospect, in a competitive wage-market, means 
 hell. That Socialist leaders are beguiled into a 
 movement such as this strengthens my conviction 
 that our formulae, or, if you will, our principles, sadly 
 lack any vital relation to the facts of life. 
 
 Perhaps you will remark that I have been re- 
 valuing my intellectual outfit. Why not ? If one 
 receives a great shock, it were surely foolish not 
 to turn it to good account. What I wanted, I still 
 want ; but I perceive that I desired something 
 infinitely greater than the Socialist movement has 
 in it to give. Socialism is now reduced to an affair 
 of party politics, coloured by a vague expectation 
 that we can compel our bureaucracy to deal more 
 humanely with labour than the present proprietors. 
 It has altogether rejected any prospect of that 
 economic revolution which so attracted you and me 
 and scores like us. Materially, we are comfortable
 
 RICHARD TUDOR 307 
 
 enough ; but behind that thwarted revolution was 
 a new spiritual vision, now blurred to all eternity. 
 We shall go down to our graves with our hunger 
 unsatisfied, with a dull ache at the heart, because 
 what we loved has not stood the test. We invested it 
 with qualities and beauties of which it was incapable. 
 The awakening has been bitter ; but it is better now 
 than later, when perhaps we could not easily have 
 adapted ourselves to something worth while. 
 
 The political virus must, I suppose, work its way 
 out. Until it does, believe me, we shall recede from 
 rather than travel toward that new form of society 
 for which we struggled. It is necessarily so ; it is 
 the nature of the political man. I have been think- 
 ing of the various concrete things we put into our 
 programme. We have completely deceived our- 
 selves in believing that difficult technical problems 
 could be solved by any kind of political effort. In 
 spirit and conception we are all hopelessly wrong 
 about it. Take agriculture as an example. How 
 glibly do we talk of land nationalization ! The term 
 is meaningless. All our talk has been of the form 
 nationalization should assume. You and I have 
 together worked out a new heptarchy, under which 
 we were to marry town and country. I do not 
 modify my views on that ; the scheme is logical, and, 
 as far as it goes, good. We have even forced the 
 Fabians to swallow it, notwithstanding underhand op- 
 position. But none of us has had the true feeling for 
 the land. It happens that I have had some thoughts 
 of working one of my farms instead of renting it. So 
 I packed one or two books on practical agriculture. 
 Now read this. It is in the preface to a book on Soils :
 
 3o8 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 " This marvellously thin layer of a few inches or a 
 very few feet that the farmer knows as ' the soil ' 
 supports all plants and all men, and makes it possible 
 for the globe to sustain a highly developed life. 
 Beyond all calculation and all comprehension are 
 the powers and the mysteries of this soft outer cover- 
 ing of the earth. We do not know that any vital 
 forces pulsate from the great interior bulk of the 
 earth. For all we know, the stupendous mass of 
 materials of which the planet is composed is wholly 
 dead, and only on the veriest surface does any nerve 
 of Hfe quicken it into a living sphere. And yet from 
 this attenuated layer have come numberless genera- 
 tions of giants of forests and of beasts, perhaps 
 greater in their combined bulk than all the soil from 
 which they have come ; and back into this soil they 
 go, until the great life principle catches up their dis- 
 organized units and builds them again into beings as 
 complex as themselves. 
 
 No doubt, all self-evident, but have you or I or any 
 of the politicals that feeling for the land, that sense of 
 awe, of reverence, evinced by this writer ? To him 
 it is almost a divine thing. To rob it is like robbing 
 God. Again I quote : " The man who owns and 
 tills the soil owes an obUgation to his fellow-men for 
 the use that he makes of his land ; and his fellow- 
 men owe an equal obligation to him to see that his 
 lot in society is such that he will not be obliged to 
 rob the earth in order to maintain his life. . . . We 
 shall reach the time when we shall not allow a man 
 to till the earth unless he is able to leave it at least 
 as fertile as he found it." His last words please 
 me immensely : "I wait for good poUtics and good
 
 RICHARD TUDOR 309 
 
 institutions to grow out of the soil. I wait for the 
 time, also, when we shall have good poetry and good 
 literature developing from subjects associated with 
 the soil ; for we want good Hterature to appeal to all 
 men." How puerile, how futile do all our pohtico- 
 mechanical schemes of land nationalization sound 
 when confronted with this practical man, who not 
 only has the skill to work the soil, but the imagination 
 to see its meaning to the sons of men ! Perhaps, 
 after all, we have gone the wrong way to work. 
 Why not organize a great agricultural fraternity or 
 guild ? It occurs to me that possibly other men 
 have a similar feeling for their own ' craft and 
 mystery.' If so, why not other self-governing 
 fraternities ? I admit, however, that I am gravelled 
 by the problem of adequate remuneration. I can 
 only pray that light shall come in God's good time. 
 
 Nevertheless, the fact remains that ' our cause, 
 pure, passionate,' has taken a wrong turn. PoHtics 
 bores me stiff. You and I know what it is locally ; 
 I suspect that it is very much the same thing at the 
 centre, the only difference being that our local men 
 play with penny chips and the head centre men with 
 sovereign counters. Even if it were desirable to play 
 the political game, our poor little ineffective leaders, 
 who shiver at ha'penny nap, would stand no chance 
 against the other party leaders. From the outset 
 we should be doomed. I have met practically all 
 the Socialist leaders — most of them have been my 
 guests — and sorrowfully affirm that when they are 
 not eaten up with conceit, they are only good-natured 
 boys, pleased with a rattle, tickled with a straw. So 
 I step down and out. Adieu !
 
 310 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 For all your good comradeship I can only offer you 
 my eternal gratitude. You haven't taken things so 
 seriously as I have. You have always had outside 
 interests, and I have rather feared your diabolical 
 sense of humour. But you have always backed me, 
 and never more strongly than when you knew I 
 was making a fool of myself. We have had some 
 gorgeous times together. 
 
 Yours as ever, 
 
 RiGHARD Tudor.
 
 XXX : THE RETURN OF THE NATIVE 
 
 My dear George, 
 
 You remember the Horatian peasant who 
 waited for the river to flow past : 
 
 Rusticus exspectat^ dum defluat amnis, at ille 
 Labitur et labetur in omne volubilis cevum ! 
 
 Perchance he had before seen only a mountain 
 stream that runs dry after the rain has ceased. But 
 if life flows like water, its supply at the source is 
 not in omne volubilis cBVum. Sooner or later, the 
 ominous fact strikes at the heart that the source 
 of our life is no longer replenished ; that it flows 
 steadily, but in decreasing volume, to be finally 
 merged in the open sea. I have had, for some 
 months, a suspicion that I too was bound on this 
 last voyage across the bar. So, on the spur of the 
 moment, I decided to return home, to find Nurse at 
 her old corner near the kitchen fire, babbling of her 
 boy suddenly called to Serbia on stern duty. 
 
 They tell me that psychology plays a big part 
 nowadays in medicine, and I can very well believe 
 it. On this hypothesis, I concluded that only an 
 Irish physician would understand the psychology of 
 an Irishman, I dare say the argument is a little 
 forced ; but I wanted to visit my old village play- 
 mate, Michael Barry, now a knight, the dean of his 
 faculty and Dublin's leading consultant. Accord- 
 ingly, I went over, and was soon in Micky's private 
 room. 
 
 " It's glad I am to see ye, Tony Now have ye 
 come because of me beautiful eyes ? " he said, 
 
 311
 
 312 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 " I wanted sore to see you again, Mick, but I came 
 because of my sinful heart." 
 
 " Bad cess to ye, didn't I warn ye against smokin' 
 those strong cigars ? Now strip — coat, waistcoat, 
 shirt, vest." 
 
 In a twinkling Micky was lost in the great physi- 
 cian. Sir Michael Barry proceeded gravely with his 
 examination, jotting down notes, all his movements 
 slow and dehberate. He told me a queer story in 
 jerks, as though to distract my thoughts. It was of 
 a man who was dead and didn't know it. A prosper- 
 ous Birmingham manufacturer had a wife who was a 
 medium. They had no children, but had practically 
 adopted a nephew who was a sea-going apprentice. 
 This boy had a chum who was apparently homeless. 
 Accordingly, when they reached a home port, they 
 would come to Birmingham. They sailed to Rio 
 Janeiro on their last voyage together. The nephew 
 was called Tom, and his chum Matt. About the time 
 they should have been returning, Mrs Wilson, being 
 in a trance — if that be the correct term — conveyed 
 a startling message to the little coterie surrounding 
 her. It was from Matt. " Cable over quickly," he 
 pleaded ; " they think I am dead and have put me in 
 a big box with a lot of dead bodies. Tell them to 
 com.e quickly and get me out." Imagine the horror 
 of it, for they beHeved in these manifestations. So 
 they cabled to Rio to the medical authorities there, 
 asking for an inquiry and a report. In two days 
 came the reply : " Matthew Ganlon died last Thurs- 
 day ; yellow fever. No possible risk of error." 
 
 "A most unhappy death," I remarked. 
 
 " The theory of it," said Sir Michael, " is that
 
 THE RETURN OF THE NATIVE 313 
 
 where life is natural!)^ tenacious, as would be the case 
 here, consciousness inheres in the corpse beyond the 
 average period." 
 
 "I have often wondered," I said, "why the 
 Church ignores these spiritualistic phenomena. Any 
 evidence pointing to the continuance of life after death 
 surely strengthens the argument for immortality." 
 
 " No doubt ; but it destroys the whole theory of 
 heaven and hell. The Church would have to recon- 
 struct its theology." 
 
 " And a good job too. Speaking of life and death, 
 what's your verdict, Micky ? " 
 
 He sat at his desk, twiddling a pencil, looking 
 gravely at his case-book. Then his grey eyes met 
 mine, and with an almost caressing accent he said : 
 
 " It's thumbs down, Tony." 
 
 " All right," said I, " I guessed it ; now I know it. 
 How long do you give me ? " 
 
 " Soon. Any time." 
 
 " No sick palaver beforehand, eh ? " 
 
 " Euthanasia in a trice. Things always did come 
 easy to you, Tony. Death will too." 
 
 " Not so easily as I sometimes pretended ; but 
 I'm not kicking. To be in the literary fashion, I 
 must quote the usual 
 
 I warm'd both hands against the fire of life ; 
 It sinks and I am ready to depart ! ^'■ 
 
 "Rotten psychology," said Micky, "The more 
 one enjoys life, the less one wants to leave it. By 
 the way, what shall we do to-night ? " 
 
 ' The Kingstown boat for me. Home and soli- 
 tude for the stricken."
 
 314 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 " I have a bit of business to do in London meself." 
 
 " You're a fraud ; you're afraid to let me travel 
 alone." 
 
 " If ye think it, ye can pay me fare." 
 
 " If I pay the piper, I call the route." 
 
 " What would ye be at, anyway ? " 
 
 " I thought, mebbe, we might take a look at the 
 old place." 
 
 " All right," said Micky ; " there's a train at three- 
 thirty. I'll just ring up Pat Fleming to look after 
 things." 
 
 He got Fleming on the telephone. Followed the 
 inevitable Irish blague. 
 
 " Paddy, darlint, I'm called away suddint. I 
 want ye to take hoult. . . . 
 
 " What do ye say ? On the razzle ? Me ! 
 Respect me grey hairs, ye divil's spawn . . . 
 
 " Goin' fishin' ! God save the man ! An' me with 
 some of the loveliest cases, wantin' a man of janius. . . . 
 
 " Cigars, do ye say ? Ye'll find a box in the top 
 right-hand drawer. An' Paddy, in case ye forget, 
 ye'll be givin' me lectures at the Hospital. . . . 
 
 " What do ye say ? No notes ? Is it a clever 
 man like Pat Fleming who'd be wantin' notes ? Tell 
 them in simple and heartfelt language how ye cured 
 yeself of the dhrink habit. . . . 
 
 " How long ? I hate to tell ye. It may be for 
 years and it may be for ever : oh, why wert thou 
 silent ..." 
 
 Fleming decisively rang off ; he'd probably heard 
 the words before in similar circumstances. Micky 
 gave a grunt of satisfaction. 
 
 " Pat's a clever boy ; but it takes a dale of
 
 THE RETURN OF THE NATIVE 315 
 
 diplomacy to handle him. He'll succeed me. I'm 
 getting on, Tony." 
 
 .   • • ~ • • * 
 
 And so we came to Camlagh. In that shabby old 
 house, its garden ill-kept or deserted, I was born. 
 Down this sordid street, with its open drain, in 
 charge of a brawny Irish girl, I had toddled and 
 slipped and fallen. At the corner of the square still 
 stood " M'Cormick's Emporium," long since passed 
 into strangers' hands. Remained, too, Tom Lis- 
 burn's bakery, with cakes and sweets in the window. 
 We went in to inquire. Yes, Tom was still alive. 
 Could we see him ? He was very old and feeble, 
 but perhaps, if we would kindly mention our 
 names ... In a minute we stood before the old 
 man, in his shabby-genteel parlour. " It's little 
 Tony. An' Mick Barry. Micky, you and yours 
 was Papists, and mebbe I treated you oncharitable. 
 An' now ye're a great man in DubUn. An' you. 
 Master Tony. I mind your father and mother this 
 min-ute. I mind them marryin' in the Quakers. 
 He was a good man, fearin' the Lord and walkin' in 
 His ways. Whin I hard of his death, me ould eyes 
 were salt wid tears. Ye've been in far counthries. 
 But ye're no prodigal. If ye swore it, I wouldn't 
 belave it. It's a swate lady yer mother was. I'm 
 an ould man, just ditherin' and totherin' into me 
 grave. An' ye must be goin'. God bless ye both 
 for callin' on me." We went out into the square, 
 silent, each with a catch in the throat. We turned 
 down toward the mill, passing the schoolhouse, 
 where your grandmother, from time to time, exa- 
 mined the children in Bible history, and told them
 
 3i6 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 of martyrs for the faith, diluted from Foxe. We 
 heard the whir of the machinery and saw the ofhce 
 where your grandfather mingled business authority 
 \\ith Christian admonition, the culprits fearing his 
 sermons more than his solemn threats. Even though 
 the place had changed, grown older, like Tom Lis- 
 burn ; even though the old spirit, the genius loci, 
 had either fled or escaped us (we had sojourned across 
 Jordan and mixed with Phihstines) — yet, somehow, 
 I felt a sense of possession and of belonging, I who 
 walked about, a stranger among strangers. In 
 the Quaker graveyard, with flat stones over them, 
 rested uncles and cousins and distant relatives, while 
 Micky's parents lay united under a great cross, with 
 its Requiescat in pace, over beyond the granite quarry, 
 in the Roman cemetery. 
 
 " Come," I said to Micky, " let's go away. It's 
 our home, yet here we have no abiding habitation." 
 
 "I'm glad I came, if only for old Tom's blessing. 
 It's queer how things stick in the memory. I once 
 stole a cake off his counter. He seemed to forgive 
 me, and without any tellin'." 
 
 " I suppose you confessed at the time, did a 
 penance and got absolution." 
 
 " Divil a ha'porth ! Father Murray would have 
 taken me straight to Tom and I'd have got a lam- 
 basting." 
 
 " Do you know, Micky, that in my heart of hearts 
 I was doubtful whether I ought to play with you. 
 Papists are dangerous, and the Scarlet Lady might 
 have got me." 
 
 " Ye arrogant Httle heretic ! But, man dear, I 
 liked bein' with ye ; it gave me a great sense of
 
 THE RETURN OF THE NATIVE 317 
 
 respectability. I think me father was the only 
 Catholic in the district with more than sixteen 
 shillin's a week." 
 
 " Arrogant is the word. It always seemed to 
 me that it was part of your religion to be poor and 
 shabb}^ My parents took me over to a little seaside 
 place in England. There were twenty shop windows 
 bigger than M'Cormick's. It was entrancing. Then 
 some shabby little urchins collected round me. I 
 thought they must be CathoHcs. They talked to me 
 but couldn't understand my brogue. I was deeply 
 offended, so, drawing myself up to my full three 
 feet six, I said : ' Look here, young fellows, me lads, 
 I'll have ye to know that I'm a Protestant Ulster- 
 man ! ' They shrieked with laughter. I think that 
 was my iirst lesson in democracy." 
 
 " There's more democracy in Ireland than in 
 England, but more petty thieving," said Micky. 
 
 " How so ? " I asked. 
 
 " In big business cheatin' is futile and out of place. 
 The industrial system may be wrong — I don't like 
 it — but ye must play fair. One can't afford the 
 time to cheat. Look at the big stock and merchan- 
 dise exchanges. Nearly everything done by word 
 of mouth and hardly a dispute. We're overrun by 
 a petite bourgeoisie which niggles at farthings and 
 cheats in ha'pennies. The worst thing ye can see 
 in Ireland this day is a village trader haggHn' with 
 a peasant over bacon and eggs. Each knows the 
 other is lying and cheating. I'm a Home Ruler — 
 every self-respectin' Irishman is — but we'll have to 
 clear away a mass of moral rubbish out of our hearts 
 and shops, as well as ascendancy out of Dubhn Castle."
 
 3i8 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW | 
 
 ' ' They like' haggling . " 
 
 " That's the worst of it. Why should they hke 
 playin' with lies and meanness ? The same spirit 
 colours Church life and politics and marriage. " 
 
 " What's your cure ? " 
 
 " Fd like the big heart of the great industry with- 
 out its bad health." 
 
 " Its bad health ! What do you mean ? " 
 
 " Would ye rather live a hundred years with a low 
 vitahty or fifty as a strong man ready to run a 
 race ? 
 
 " Better fifty years of lustiness than a cycle of low 
 health." 
 
 " We're hearin' all the time of the reduction of 
 the death-rate. It's true enough. But it takes no 
 count of life intensity. Industrial England doesn't 
 know the meanin' of the term. Ginger's no longer 
 hot in its mouth." 
 
 We left our birthplace, never to return. For a 
 brief space we had been simple-minded, emotional 
 Irish lads, unconscious of the great world, where 
 men struggle with realities and bogeys, where new 
 ideas shake communities, changing their idols, amid 
 clamour and tumult. Behind us were the Lisburns, 
 secure in the old faiths, as unchanging as Mount 
 Camlagh.that rose sheer out of the lake, linking up with 
 Slieve Gallion, upon whose summit Finn MacCumhal 
 fought with Cuchulain, dealing him a deathly blow 
 with that great boulder that stands there, a lasting 
 monument to his prowess and giant strength. We 
 entered again the great world, of which we were 
 citizens, yet conscious of its cold indifference. If 
 human affection be the supreme end, how unwise to
 
 THE RETURN OF THE NATIVE 319 
 
 leave this little place, where men and women, un- 
 distracted by ' problems,' have time to minister to 
 each other, with a vivid sense that they are members 
 of one family ! The lights of Greenore faded out of 
 sight. Micky made me turn into my bunk. I slept 
 uneasily, oppressed with a feeling that I was a 
 deserter and had gained precious little by it. . . . 
 The clangour of the train released my thoughts, 
 which, in the solitude of the noise, travelled to far 
 horizons, envisaging that unknown future which 
 may be no future, where time is not. 
 
 Thus, by a momentary whim, I had come back 
 to my beginning, and in memory travelled the full 
 circle of my wayward life, now fast speeding to its 
 ghostly terminus. 
 
 I have never pretended to understand life and its 
 purpose — if it have a purpose — least of all now, as it 
 fades into the chill shades, like the lights of Greenore 
 a few short hours ago. But I have seen enough to 
 warrant the belief that you may mount high as the 
 eagle and your soul nest among the stars. So bend 
 your efforts that . . . 
 
 THE LATE ANTHONY FARLEY 
 
 To THE Editor 
 Sir, 
 
 Some of the friends of my uncle, the late Mr 
 Anthony Farley, have urged me to collect his papers 
 and letters in book form for private circulation, or 
 possibly a wider circle. 
 
 If I may judge by my own experience, he was
 
 320 
 
 LETTERS TO MY NEPHEW 
 
 a voluminous correspondent, with wide interests. I 
 would be grateful to those who possess any letters 
 written by him if they would let me have them. I 
 will take great care of them, and, after copying, 
 return them. 
 
 Your obedient servant, 
 
 George Farley.
 
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